


Ghosts That We Knew

by eternaleponine



Series: Ghosts That We Knew [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, Warning: Non-Explicit Mentions of Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 60
Words: 119,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light</i><br/><i>'Cause oh that gave me such a fright</i><br/><i>But I will hold on with all of my might</i><br/><i>Just promise me we'll be all right.</i><br/>- Mumford & Sons</p>
<p>   <b>Avengers High School AU</b></p>
<p>Clint and Natasha are both new at Shield County High School, and both have been marked as "troubled"... or maybe just trouble.</p>
<p>(This story is continued in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/951779">Time For A Sign</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CPS = Child Protective Services

Circus folk looked after their own. That is, until you become too much trouble, and there was no doubt that Clint Barton was just that: trouble.

The whole Barton family was trouble, or they had been. Clint's drunk of a father was dead now (may he rot in hell) and his mother with him, and maybe Clint should miss them but he didn't. He missed Barney, but he'd given up on ever seeing him again. He'd tried, after it happened, after it all blew up (literally) and they left him behind, but for all that their job was to call attention to themselves, they were remarkably good at disappearing when they didn't want to be found.

And when there was a chance of the cops or CPS coming down on them, they didn't want to be found.

Clint was tainted now, and damaged goods, and that part of his life was over. He just had to accept it.

Not that this was a bad place, where he was now. He couldn't complain when he got three meals a day and a room of his own and if he did his chores he even got an allowance. If he got sick, they took him to the doctor and when he needed new clothes they bought them. They made sure he had what he needed, and maybe if he let them do more they would, but he didn't usually. Still, it could be a lot worse, and he knew it. He'd met kids before he got placed who'd told him horror stories.

Probably he would have ended up one of them, except he'd been dubbed "special needs" and fast-tracked into a foster family instead of a group home. His shrink (because yeah, they decided it would do him good to talk about it, not that anyone had asked _him_ ) would say that that was the silver lining or some shit. 

He tried (sometimes) to make himself believe it. 

"Clinton! You're going to be late!"

"Yeah, coming!" He grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at the bow propped in the corner and sighed. No point in bringing it when he wouldn't get to use it. The Sullivans didn't like that he had it in the first place, but he'd refused to allow it to be taken away. He'd had to concede the arrows.

"I don't see why you always get up so late. If you woke up earlier, you could have a real breakfast," Mrs. Sullivan fussed. He couldn't tell if she was actually annoyed or if she just felt it was her motherly duty to bitch at him about stupid shit.

To pieces of bread popped out of the toaster and Clint grabbed them, slathering one with peanut butter and the other with jelly , slapping them together to make a sandwich.

"'M fine," he mumbled around a sticky mouthful as he poured coffee into a travel mug and dosed it liberally with sugar. The agency had told his foster parents that they would need to pick their battles, and the one over whether or not he was allowed to drink coffee was one they'd eventually had to give up.

The others looked up from their places at the table with a mixture of admiration, envy and annoyance, and sometimes all three at the same time. There were four of them staying with the Sullivans right now, and Clint was the oldest, and the newest, so it bothered some of them that he got away with things they never could. They all had various issues, and the neighbors seemed to think the Sullivans were saints for taking them on. (They were also pretty sure the kids were the spawn of Satan, so...)

They weren't saints, but they were good people. It had taken a while before Clint believed that it was more than a façade, and they weren't going to turn on him as soon as CPS looked away. Almost five months in, though, he'd started to trust them, as much as he was able to trust anyone when suspicion had been bred into him.

He screwed the lid onto his coffee mug and took a swig, wincing as it burned his tongue, and headed for the door.

"Don't forget your lunch," Mrs. Sullivan said, shoving it into his hands.

"Thanks," he said, earning a look of disgust from here for talking with his mouth full again.

The high school wasn't that far away, and he enjoyed the walk. It was the only time he got any peace and quiet, pretty much, without taking his hearing aids off, which he wasn't supposed to do except in the shower or when sleeping. It pissed him off, but those were the rules.

He went to his locker, shoving his lunch on the shelf and switching out his books so he had the ones he needed for his morning classes. The whole school thing rubbed him the wrong way a lot of the time, but like most of his life these days, it was a necessary evil. And like a lot of things, it wasn't always so bad, although he spent a lot of time trying to cover for the fact that his "homeschool" education up to that point had been spotty at best.

"Mister Barton! Just the man I was looking for."

Clint turned to see the smiling face of Mr. Coulson, the school social worker. Clint had spent more time than he liked to think about in the man's office since he'd started school, doing make-up classes over the summer. Still, he couldn't think of any reason why Mr. Coulson would be looking for him.

"I didn't do it," he said. "Wasn't me."

The corner of the social worker's mouth quirked. "Not yet," he said. "I actually have a special assignment for you."

Clint went still, immediately on edge. "I don't need more homework."

"It's not homework. It's not really work at all. We have a new student and I need someone to show them around, make sure they find their classes, all of that."

"Why me?" Clint asked. "Why not one of the do-good suck-ups like Rogers?"

"Because Mr. Rogers has enough going on. I thought it might be beneficial to match them with someone who knows what it's like to be new. For both of you."

"Do I get a choice?"

"No. It's just for the first few days, until they settle in."

Clint heaved a sigh. "Fine." He slipped his arm through the strap of his backpack, settling the weight on his shoulders. He followed Mr. Coulson to main office, dragging his feet.

"Natalia," Mr. Coulson said. "There's someone I want you to meet."

The small figure slumped in one of the office chairs, hood over head, looked up. Clint hadn't even noticed her at first. But now that he'd seen her, he couldn't look away. The first thing he noticed was her flame-red hair, long tangled curls framing her face. Her skin was pale and her eyes were wide and blue, and she was beautiful.

She stood up, facing Coulson and barely sparing Clint a glance. She said something, but Clint didn't understand a word of it. Her voice was low and husky, not at all what he would have imagined from someone her size, and she had some kind of accent, apparently, or maybe she wasn't speaking English. He honestly couldn't tell.

Coulson shook his head. "Natalia, this is Clint Barton. Clint, Natalia Romanova."

"Hey," Clint said. "Nice to meet you." He didn't offer his hand because he got the feeling she wouldn't have taken it. She looked at him, finally, but didn't say anything.

"He's going to show you around, make sure you can find all of your classes. Just for the first few days." He handed Clint a copy of her schedule and a pass that would allow him to arrive at his own class a few minutes late and leave a few minutes early so he could be there to escort her. She looked even less thrilled about it than he was.

"I don't need help," she said as soon as they left the office. "You can go."

At least that's what Clint thought she said. The combination of the noise in the hall, the pitch her voice and her accent made it very difficult for him to understand her. He fiddled with one of his hearing aids but it didn't really help. "Okay," he said finally. "Go ahead then."

She looked at her schedule, frowned, and headed off – in the wrong direction. He caught up with her, touched her shoulder, but she yanked away, her hands coming up like she expected a fight.

"You're going the wrong way," he said, holding his hands up in surrender, to show that he meant no harm. "It's that way." He pointed.

She scowled, but straightened, her hands dropping. "Tell me."

"Maybe I should show you," he said. "Just this once."

Her frown deepened, but she finally nodded, once, and fell into step behind him. He wound his way through the halls, finding her classroom a few minutes before the bell. "I'll come back after," he said. "Your next class is all the way on the other side of the school."

She considered him for a moment, then nodded again and ducked into the classroom, obviously trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. He could sympathize; it hadn't been that long since he was in the same position. Which was probably Mr. Coulson's whole point, damn him.

He flashed his pass at his teacher as he took his seat and tried to pay attention, but his mind kept drifting back to Natalia, wondering who she was and where she'd come from and how she'd ended up here. He wondered how she was getting along in class, and whether she would actually let him help her at all.

He left class five minutes early to make sure he was waiting when her class let out. He wouldn't put it past her to slip out to try to get away from him. She glanced at him, her hands shoved in her pockets, and said nothing as they made the trek across the school. Which was how it went with every class, until they got to lunch.

He'd stopped at his locker to switch his books and grab the food that Mrs. Sullivan had packed before meeting Natalia. "You can sit with me if you want," he offered. "It's getting a little cold for it but I usually eat outside."

"I'm fine," she said automatically.

"I know. Offer still stands."

He could see her struggling. She didn't want anything to do with him, or anyone as far as he could tell, but what else was she going to do? Where else would she go? Her cheek dented in as she bit the inside, but finally she sighed. "Where?"

"Come on." He led her out of the school and away. _Technically_ they weren't supposed to be out this far, but no one had ever bothered him about it. "Can you climb?"

She watched as he clambered up the branches of a tree, then scrambled after him. He watched as she perched just below him, within reach but not easily.

"You have a lunch?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said again.

"You say that a lot."

"Because is true." A line formed between her brows. "Because _it_ is true."

"Right." He pulled out his lunch. Ham and cheese, an apple, carrots, and two cookies. "Here." He held out half of the sandwich to her and refused to pull back his arm until she took it. The apple was split (with a pocket knife he wasn't supposed to have) and the carrots divvied up. After her initial protest, Natalia didn't argue. Clint knew he would be hungry long before the end of the day, but there was no way he was going to eat when she had nothing, and not share.

Maybe tomorrow he would ask Mrs. Sullivan for two sandwiches. He was a growing boy, after all.

He handed her one of the cookies and for a second he thought he saw the barest flicker of a smile. Once the food was gone, they sat in silence, and it was... nice. Peaceful. Clint could get to like someone who knew the value of quiet.

When the period was over, he motioned for her to climb down. She dropped from the last branch, landing lightly and stepping back to make room for him to follow.

His feet hit the ground and he shouldered his backpack again. She was looking at him strangely, and he instinctively reached up to make sure he didn't have anything on his face. She shook her head then, as if to say that wasn't it. 

"Thank you," she finally mumbled. 

"You're welcome," he replied. "Come on. Don't want to be late." She rolled her eyes, and he laughed. "Okay, maybe you don't care, but I don't need Coulson on my ass for not doing my duty or whatever." Not that he normally cared, but the truth was, for all that he'd complained about it at first, he kind of liked being able to show her around. He didn't want the job taken away from him because he didn't do it right. 

As they approached the school, he slowed down. "Hey, uh... I was thinking if you wanted, after school, I could give you a tour of the whole place? When the halls ain't so full. Kind of map out where things are so tomorrow..." His voice trailed off. 

She looked at him without looking at him, like her eyes were on him but she didn't see him, and she didn't answer. He finally just turned and kept moving, because what else was there to do? 

At the end of the day, though, he waited for her after her last class, even though it wouldn't have been hard for her to find her way out of the building; just follow everyone else in the mass exodus. "It's this way," he said unnecessarily. "Do you take the bus?"

"I thought you were going to show me," she said, gesturing vaguely with her left hand. "When everyone is gone."

"Oh." Clint grinned. "Right. Sure." He found a place for them to wait, out of the way, and once the halls were mostly clear, he took her around the school, making sure to point out where all of her classes were, as well as other important places, like the office and the cafeteria. She said almost nothing, but he could see her taking it all in, filing it away. It seemed like not much escaped her, and he suspected that she wouldn't need his help for long.

They arrived back at the main doors and Clint pushed them open, stepping outside into the cool autumn air. She followed him and hesitated. "I see you in morning?"

"What?" Clint was sure that he'd heard her wrong. He had a hard enough time understanding her as it was, and this seemed so outside of the realm of possibility that he knew it had to be a mistake.

"Nothing," she replied, looking away. 

"No, tell me," Clint said, reaching out but then stopping himself before he touched her, remembering what had happened when he'd made that mistake before. 

"I see you in morning?" she asked again, color creeping into her cheeks.

This time he was sure he'd heard it. He hoped his grin didn't look as idiotic as it felt. "Yeah. I'll meet you here, okay?"

" _Da._ " She frowned, shook her head. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter of a series... or it may become a series if people seem interested. Normally I don't start posting things until they're done, but I figured I might as well. The rest of the Avengers are likely to appear at some point if I continue.


	2. Chapter 2

Every night at dinner, they were asked how their day had been. Their answers had to be in complete sentences. "Fine" and "Okay" were not acceptable. The younger kids, who had been there longer (one of them for most of his life, and the Sullivans would have adopted him by now if his mother wasn't dragging her feet about forfeiting parental rights) were used to it and always had something to say. Clint's answers were nearly always bullshit, because even if this was an okay place to be, he wasn't in the habit of talking about things much, which always meant they pried deeper. It annoyed the shit out of him.

Tonight, though, things were different. Tonight he had something to say that might get them off his back, because it wasn't just him trying to dodge the question.

"So how was your day, Clinton?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. She always called him by his full name, which also drove him up a wall.

"Good," he said. "Mr. Coulson had me show a new student around the school."

"Is that right?" She smiled at him. "He must trust you."

"I guess." Clint shrugged. "I'm supposed to help her out for the first few days."

"That's good," Mr. Sullivan said. "It's good to make new friends."

Clint wasn't sure that he could actually classify Natalia as a friend, but despite the fact that she'd barely said a word to him all day, she was probably the closest thing he had to one. Beggars couldn't be choosers, or something like that.

The subject was dropped when Kevin interrupted to ask about whether they were coming to his soccer game on Friday, because he was probably going to be starting and they'd better not miss it. Clint was quiet for the rest of the meal, his thoughts straying to the redhead who spoke like she had marbles in her mouth (or at least that's what it sounded like to him) and what she was up to.

 _Maybe I should offer to help her with homework,_ he thought, then almost laughed out loud at himself. What help could he possibly be when he barely had a clue himself? And anyway, if he asked, she would just tell him she was fine.

*

He got to school early the next morning, and found that Natalia was already there, hunkered down on the steps, her hood up over her head again. She glanced up when she heard him approaching and stood.

"You came back," he joked. She only nodded in return, not even cracking a smile. "Ready for your second day?" She shrugged, and he gave up and went inside, walking her to her first class. He met her after and she didn't protest, even when he led her from one class to the next even though it was only down the stairs. 

"Do you wanna have lunch with me again?" he asked. "It's turkey today."

She rolled her eyes, but for the second time in their acquaintance, he thought he saw the faintest hint of a smile teasing at the corner of her mouth. She was slower following him up the tree this time, moving as if something hurt, and he hesitated. But calling attention to it would probably just make things worse, so he just perched a little lower this time so she didn't have as far to go. 

He handed her a whole sandwich, and she opened her mouth to object but he shook his head. "I packed two today," he said. "Just in case."

She watched him more openly this time, her gaze frank and assessing. When the last of the food was gone, she finally reached up and tapped behind her own ear. "What's that?"

Clint grimaced. "Hearing aid."

"Why?" 

The answer, 'Because I can't hear' was too obvious. He knew that wasn't what she was asking, and it surprised him that she was asking at all. But it wasn't something he liked to talk about, ever, with anyone. "Long story."

She nodded and seemed to let it go, although he saw her still sneaking glances at him. 

"Where are you from?" he asked. 

She looked up at him, blinked. Maybe she thought he was an idiot for not knowing. "Russia," she said.

"Why'd you come here?"

This time the smile made it about halfway before she brought the expression to a halt, and even that arrested gesture made her even more beautiful than she already was, which was saying something. "Long story."

"Maybe someday you'll tell me," he said. Maybe someday he would do the same. 

"Maybe."

It was the closest they'd come to an actual conversation, but they'd both led with things that were kept behind closed, locked doors, the skeletons in their closets that were hard to hide but they did their damnedest. Silence descended again, but like the day before, there was no discomfort in it. They could be curious without prying, and again Clint wondered if maybe there'd been more to Mr. Coulson choosing him than he'd let on. 

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asked at the end of the day. He was pretty sure she wouldn't need him, but maybe, despite her earlier insistence that she was fine, she didn't need help... maybe she might actually want him around. A little.

"You know where to find me." Again, the flicker of a smile, but this one made it to her eyes, too, maybe even started there. She was teasing him, almost. 

He kind of liked it.

*

Mrs. Sullivan looked at him in surprise when he appeared in the kitchen without her having to yell up at him. "I didn't make any eggs for you," she said. "I didn't think—"

"Don't worry about it," he said, putting two Pop-Tarts (which he wasn't supposed to have, but he'd bought them with his own money so they couldn't stop him) in the toaster to warm up while he made his coffee. "I gotta get to school early."

"Oh?" The _why_ was implied, but Clint chose to ignore it. 

"Yeah." He finished packing his own lunch while she did the younger kids', which allowed him to slip in a little more than usual. She would notice eventually, and maybe he would explain or maybe he wouldn't. It wasn't any of her business, really, and anyway, if she was taking in strays practically for a living, how could she get pissed at him for making sure someone got fed?

Once the toaster popped, he grabbed the two sugary rectangles and wrapped them in a napkin. "Later," he called, heading for the door before anyone could say anything else to him. He walked a little faster than usual, hoping to find Natalia waiting again, but she wasn't there. He sat down in the same place he'd found her yesterday, but she never appeared. 

"You're going to be late," Mr. Coulson called to him as the last warning bell rang. 

For a second, he considered telling the social worker that he hadn't seen Natalia come in, but he stopped himself, because the response would most likely have been that maybe he'd just missed her. Which wasn't likely, but no one here understood that. He didn't know how much they knew about his past, but _he_ knew that he wasn't called Hawkeye for nothing.

He finally got up and went inside, having to dodge quickly as a football player came barreling his way, brushing against him but not running him over. The tall blonde turned, jogging backward and yelled, "Thanks!"

"For—" Clint broke off when he realized that the Viking-esque quarterback (or so Clint assumed; he didn't know anything about football and he didn't want to) had stolen the Pop-Tart he'd still been holding. He'd been saving it for Natalia. "Asshole!"

"Language!" a passing teacher snapped. "Get to class."

Fuming, Clint turned and stalked off, already trying to think of ways to get his revenge.

He used the pass he'd been given to get out of class early, but she never emerged from the classroom. After two classes and two no-shows, he gave up. So he was more than a little surprised when she was sitting underneath the tree where they'd shared lunch for the past two days, her back against the trunk and her legs stretched out in front of her. 

"I didn't see you this morning," he said.

She shook her head. "I had..." She frowned, glaring at the grass like it had somehow wronged her, or like she might find the word she was looking for buried in its browning leaves if she just looked hard enough. "Meeting," she finally said. 

"Oh." He knew better than to ask what kind of meeting. It wasn't really any of his business. "Hungry?"

Natalia shrugged, but accepted the food he offered. She didn't look at him, and Clint didn't try to get her to. She was in her own world today, obviously, and if she wanted to talk about it, she would. But she'd sought him ought. She'd chosen to keep that world in close proximity to his, and for now, that was enough.

*

On Thursday she didn't meet him for lunch. When he caught her after school and asked, she said that she'd had to make up a test that she'd missed the previous morning. On Friday, she didn't show up at all.

Clint knew he should let it go. It probably wasn't a big deal. But who missed a day and a half out of their first week of school? It didn't sit well. Something about it didn't feel right, and the voices in the back of his head that sounded like his parents, his brother, the other rousties and circus folk told him to butt out and 'don't stick your nose in where it don't belong or you're like to get it bit off', and he almost listened.

But his path to the front door led him past the guidance office, and he saw through the glass door that Mr. Coulson was there, talking to one of the guidance counselors. He made himself keep moving, two steps forward, but then a step back, then another. 

Mr. Coulson happened to turn and look then, and he said something quickly to the woman he'd been speaking to – Clint didn't know her name – and stepped out. "Can I help you with something, Mr. Barton?" he asked.

"No," Clint said. "I'm fine."

But the words tasted sour, and he heard them in his head with Natalia's almost indecipherable inflection, and his hands tightened at his sides, forming fists. He turned to go again, making it a dozen steps before he couldn't make himself go any farther.

He turned around. "She wasn't here today," he said.

The social worker's eyebrows crept up toward his receding hairline. "Who wasn't here?"

"Natalia. You know, the one that you put me in charge of looking out for? She wasn't here today."

"She wasn't," Mr. Coulson agreed. "I did see that on the attendance report."

"Do you know where she was?"

He shook his head no, and added, "I couldn't tell you if I did."

"Will she be back on Monday?" Clint asked, screwing his face up when he realized how stupid a question it was. Although the image that it brought to mind, of Mr. Coulson pulling out a crystal ball from his jacket and gazing into it to take a peek into the future, had him fighting back a laugh.

"I don't see why she wouldn't be," Mr. Coulson said. "She's still getting settled in here," he added after a second. "Not just this school, but this country. Things undoubtedly come up. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for her absence."

It annoyed him that Mr. Coulson was obviously trying to placate him, to smooth things over. It didn't matter that he was probably right. Shit happened. Clint knew that better than anyone. Whatever was going on, it probably wasn't a big deal.

Unless it was. 

In which case, it was probably better to stay well clear of it. Getting tangled up in someone else's mess wasn't a great idea. _Especially_ when he had no idea what that mess was. But they'd been thrown together, and if he took that responsibility maybe a little beyond its original intention, was that so bad?

"She knows her way around," he said finally. "She didn't need me to walk her anywhere yesterday. She's got it figured out."

"That's good," Mr. Coulson said. "I told you that you wouldn't have to do it for long."

"So... that's it?" Clint asked. "I'm done?"

"You're done," the man replied. "Officially."

Clint looked at him then, and the social worker looked back at him like he was trying to say something without actually saying it. And Clint thought he understood. Officially, there was no need for him to look after Natalia Romanova anymore. But that didn't mean he had to stop. 

"Okay," he said after a moment. "Have a good weekend, sir."

"You too, Mr. Barton."

"Thanks." Clint never thought he would actually look forward to Monday.


	3. Chapter 3

Natalia's grip on his wrist was like iron, and when she started yanking his arm Clint really couldn't argue. She was strong for her size, and determined.

"Where are we—" he started, but her glare shut him up. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and followed. He only balked when they reached the edge of the property. "Natalia, we—"

"We go," she snapped. "We go _now_." She let go of him and cross her arms. When he still hesitated, she made a sound suspiciously like a growl and started to walk away without him.

 _What are you doing?_ When had he become a law-abiding citizen? When had he started going what he was told? School sucked, and yeah, he might get in trouble for skipping it, but so what? He'd rather be with Natalia, especially when she was obviously upset. Clint shook himself like a dog ridding its coat of water, and caught up with her in a few quick steps.

She glanced at him, then farther back at the school, and didn't slow down until they were well clear of it. "Come," she said, latching on to his sleeve again. She led him through small streets and back alleys, through a part of town he'd never been in before, and finally squeezed her way through a wrought iron fence where it was missing a bar. 

"What..." But Natalia was already too far away to hear his hissed question, or she was just ignoring him. He squeezed through after her, glad of the thick material of his jacket as he scraped up against the metal. She turned and looked back at him, stopped and waited for him to catch up before leading him to a dilapidated shed in the middle of what was, he discovered, an incredibly overgrown cemetery. It didn't look like anyone had been there for years.

The door of the shed had once been locked, but the lock had been broken, by Natalia or long before her, he didn't know. Half of the roof had rotted and caved in, but the rest was still intact, and the stone walls were still standing, giving them shelter from the wind. Very little light made it through the grime on the windows, but the hole in the roof helped there.

It was obvious that Natalia spent time here on a regular basis. There was a tarp spread on the ground and a pile of blankets folded in the corner, and a ring of stones in the center, surrounding the remnants of a fire long since gone to ash. She sat down, leaning back against one of the walls, and fished a pack of cigarettes from her backpack, lighting one and putting it to her lips, her head tilting back and hitting the brick with a soft thud as she breathed out. She took another drag, then held it out to Clint, one eyebrow raised in question.

He reached out and took it, their fingers brushing, and for a second he had the mad impulse to take her hand, to wrap her fingers in his and hold on. But he wasn't stupid enough to give in to it. She was mercurial, her moods like quicksilver, and he didn't want to find himself out of her favor when she'd just brought him somewhere that was obviously her own little hideout.

The smoke clawed at his lungs, harsher than anything he'd encountered, and he didn't quite manage to suppress a cough. She smirked and held up the pack, showing him the Cyrillic lettering. Apparently in Russia they didn't care about lung cancer, because these things _felt_ deadly. 

He sat down next to her and handed the cigarette back. "Am I allowed to ask now why we ran away from school?"

She shook her head no, so he let it go. He accepted the cigarette again when it was offered, and it wasn't so bad the second time. Silence settled over them, but the ease that they usually had between them was missing. Natalia was tense, twitchy, and Clint could feel her looking at him, not staring but glancing over again and again, like she was waiting for him to do something but didn't know when he was going to do it.

"English is stupid language," she announced. 

Clint turned to look at her and she looked back, her expression daring him to contradict her. He hadn't planned on it anyway. "Did something happen?" he asked.

Natalia shrugged. Clint waited. Finally she snapped. "I am not stupid. Maybe I not know all English words, maybe they not come out right, but I am _not_ stupid."

"I know," Clint said. 

"Everyone treat me like... like _imbecile_." Her eyes narrowed as Clint fought not to smile. "What?" she demanded. "You laugh. Why?"

"Because," Clint said. "You're complaining that people treat you like you're stupid, but you're using a word that probably half of them don't know. It's... pretty sure that's irony."

"Is not funny."

"It is," Clint said. "It's funny because it proves them wrong."

It was obvious that she still didn't understand, but she apparently decided it wasn't worth arguing over. "Even teachers treat me like I'm stupid, and then I have to go to English as Second Language class, where they teach like we are children. A apple. B baby. C cat. I know ABC! I like to see them read Tolstoy in original Russian!"

The words tumbled out faster than Clint could process them, but he didn't want to admit that he hadn't understood. Something about ABCs and teachers, and yeah, he knew what it was like for teachers to think you were an idiot, but in his case they were probably right. At least when it came to school stuff.

He knew how angry it could make a person, to not be able to communicate. She probably knew exactly what she wanted to say, and she just didn't have the words to say it, or couldn't put them together as quickly as she would have liked. Back when he'd first lost his hearing, he'd been able to speak, but not to understand what anyone else was saying, and they'd all talked over him like he wasn't there, like he wasn't capable of making his own decisions anymore. 

Even with his hearing aids, in a large group with a lot of people talking, he got lost, and it was almost impossible to catch up once he'd lost the thread of a conversation. So yeah, maybe if anyone could understand where Natalia was coming from in her frustration, he could.

"I have an idea," Clint said.

"What?" she asked. 

"Come with me." He stood up and brushed himself off, holding out his hand to her. She eyed it warily, then finally reached out and took it, allowing him to help her up. When she was standing, she didn't immediately let go, just stood staring at their joined hands for a second like she wasn't quite sure what to make of them.

The moment passed, and they both let go as if on some unspoken cue.

"Where we go?" Natalia asked, picking up her backpack and slinging it over her shoulders. 

Clint did the same, and opened the door to the shed, stepping back out into sunlight and the chill autumn air. "You'll see."

"No." She stopped, shook her head. "I not go anywhere until you tell me where."

He looked back at her, biting the inside of his lip. "I followed you," he pointed out. "I didn't know where, but I followed you anyway."

Natalia snorted. "So you stupid. I not so stupid."

Clint's jaw dropped open, and it took him a second to realize it and snap it back shut. "Y'know what? Never mind. Do what you want. I'm going." He turned and walked back toward the fence, barely paying attention so that he nearly tripped over an old grave marker. He caught himself before he could fall. Maybe he _was_ stupid, but at least he still had his pride. He wasn't going to beg anyone for anything.

*

The irony of the fact that he skipped school and ended up on the library was not lost on him. Two examples of irony in one day – his English teacher would be so proud. He tried to avoid the librarians, who would probably know he was supposed to be in school and rat him out, and searched the catalog himself, finding the section he was looking for and taking down a stack of books. He laid them out on a table in a corner of the second floor, hoping no one would notice him there.

"This is what?"

Clint's heart leapt into his throat and then dropped into his gut with a sickening lurch. He had been so caught up in what he was reading that he hadn't even heard her approach. Not that that was exactly unusual these days... he didn't hear a lot of things. "I have an idea," he told her again, and turned around the book to show her.

*

The sun was setting and Clint's stomach was complaining loudly about the fact that he'd never gotten around to eating lunch by the time they left the library. He'd checked out half a dozen books, handing some of them over to Natalia (who didn't have her own library card), and knew he'd be spending more time looking through them than he ever did on homework.

He looked at Natalia, the corner of his mouth quirking, and touched his first and middle finger in the shape of a V, palm facing his cheek, under his right eye, then pointed to her, then folded in the fingers of his right hand and touched the side of his thumb to the side of his chin, moving the hand forward a few inches. Each small movement was painstakingly precise.

She nodded, echoing the motions and waving before heading off into the darkness.

*

"Where have you been?" Mr. Sullivan demanded the minute he walked in the door.

"Library," Clint replied. It wasn't even a lie.

"Oh really? Because we got a call today from the school, saying that you didn't attend any of your afternoon classes." 

"So? I was at the library. You can ask 'em. I was there all afternoon." 

"You skipped school to go to the library?" Mr. Sullivan's jaw clenched. 

"Well... yeah."

"Why?"

"Extra credit project," Clint replied. He could see one of the veins in his foster father's temple throbbing. 

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" he asked. "Do you really expect me to believe that you skipped school to go to the library and work on an extra credit project? That is one of the worst excuses I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot in my life."

"Okay, fine, it's not extra credit, but maybe if I talk to my teachers it could be," Clint said. Hell, thinking about, maybe he _could_ make something out of it. Why not? It was learning, and more useful than a lot of the shit that they seemed to think was important. "But I was at the fucking library!"

"Watch your mouth," Mr. Sullivan snapped. "Go wash your hands for dinner. We'll finish this conversation after. You can consider yourself grounded."

Clint waited until he was out of the man's line of sight to roll his eyes. _Go ahead and try and ground me. See where that gets you._ There was no way he was going to let anyone keep him from pursuing this, when it actually meant something to him. 

He dumped the books from the library on his bed. _The Joy of Signing._ _American Sign Language Dictionary._ _Learning American Sign Language._

Because English was a stupid language, and sometimes he couldn't understand her either. At least with sign language they were equally clueless, and they could figure it out together.


	4. Chapter 4

"Let me make sure I have this straight," Mr. Coulson said. "The two of you left school yesterday, skipped all of your afternoon classes, to go to the library to study sign language?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "Why is that so hard to believe?"

Mr. Coulson looked at Natalia, who nodded. "Is true."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Clint wondered if they were giving him a headache. He was probably regretting ever putting them together in the first place. "But you realize how... crazy it sounds? You understand why everyone is having a hard time believing you?" 

"But we ain't lying!" Clint's hands balled into fists at his sides, his voice edging into a growl. "I can show you the books. This is bullshit."

"Mr. Barton, there is no need to—"

"Yeah there is a fucking need! You're treating us like criminals when all we—" He stopped when he felt something brush the back of his hand. He glanced down and saw it was Natalia.

_Stop_ , she signed. _Maybe he can help._

It was the touch more than the words that got him to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"I'm not the enemy," Mr. Coulson said, looking from Clint to Natalia and back again. "I am not out to get you. But you can't just leave school, even if it's to go pursue... other educational opportunities. If this is something that you want to do, I can see about setting up some kind of independent study for you. But until that's done, you need to go to your classes and stay out of trouble. But I need to know that you're serious about this."

"I am," Clint said.

"Natalia?"

" _Da_. Yes."

"Okay. I'll smooth things over with your teachers – and parents – as best I can. But no more unauthorized field trips, understand?"

"Yes," Clint said, and Natalia nodded.

"Good." He wrote them out passes. "Get back to class."

_You think he'll do it?_ , Clint signed when they were out of the office.

Natalia shrugged. "I hope." Because hope wasn't a sign they'd learned yet. For that matter, it was a state of mind that they were both still working on grasping.

*

Mr. Coulson was as good as his word. By the end of the week, they both had independent study time at the end of each day, and special permission to leave school to work at the public library if they needed to. There were people who didn't like the amount of freedom they were given, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan among them (although they had decided to commute Clint's sentence), but as long as they met with their advisor (a responsibility the social worker had taken on himself) regularly and completed the assignments he devised for them, there wasn't really anything they could do.

Which was how Clint and Natalia found themselves spending hours together, poring over books and videos, absorbing their own secret language (or so it felt) as quickly as their minds (and fingers) could process it. They battled through the rest of their homework, helping each other where they could, because it had been made very clear that if their other classes suffered, it would all be taken away.

Sometimes they took refuge in the shed in the cemetery, even though it was getting too cold for it. Clint would bring a thermos of coffee or hot chocolate, and they would huddle close together, wrapped in blankets, shaping words with their hands, writing or speaking when signing failed them, and forgetting the rest of the world for a little while.

One Sunday they met up in the late morning. Clint had left a note – the Sullivans were at church, which he refused to attend – saying he was working on a school project and would be home for dinner. They wouldn't be happy, but he didn't much care. Some things were more important. Natalia was one of those things.

He packed a lunch for both of them and spread it out like a picnic in a patch of sun when he arrived. Natalia was late, and signed a quick apology before sinking down slowly on a corner of the blanket. She didn't look like she'd slept, and she kept her eyes down as she picked at her food.

"Natalia?"

"Natasha."

Clint's forehead furrowed. "What?"

"Natasha?" She spelled it out with her fingers. "Is... form of name for friends."

"Natasha."

" _Da._ "

"Okay." He watched her, wanting to reach out and touch her, to tuck her hair behind her ears, to tip up her face so she would look him in the eye. He wanted... impossible things. Things that would never happen. Not for a guy like him. Not with a girl like her.

The day warmed, and they shed their coats. Natalia – now Nataha – his _friend_ Natasha – seemed to perk up after a while, but she remained quiet. They worked for a little while, but Clint noticed she turned the pages of her book less and less frequently. He looked over and saw that she was watching him, frowning slightly. He held out his hands, fingers spread and palms up. _What?_

Her frown deepened. She tapped behind her ear. "What do you hear?" she asked. "How the world sound to you?"

Clint considered. It wasn't something he could explain, really. 'Muffled' and 'confusing' couldn't fully convey the sensation of hearing things but not always being able to sort out what was important to process them fast enough to know what he was hearing. Then he had a thought. He reached into his backpack and pulled out his headphones – big over-the-ear ones that he could wear with his hearing aids – and put on a song, turning the volume down so that it was barely audible, just background noise. He scooted closer and put the headphones over her ears, then sat back and started talking to her, mumbling and not looking at her.

She lasted about thirty seconds before she reached out and grabbed him by the jaw, yanking his face around. "I don't understand," she snapped.

"I know." He took the headphones off and put them away. "Welcome to my world." He cocked his head, considering her, and asked, "How does the world sound to you?"

She rolled her eyes, huffing out a breath, and began speaking, peppering the English monologue with words and phrases in Russian, until it became practically gibberish because he was so busy trying to fill in the first blank from context that he missed what came after.

He reached out and touched her hand, signing, _I like this better._

The corner of her mouth quirked up. _Me too._

*

Some days Natasha couldn't stay after school at all, although she never told Clint why. Some days she seemed reluctant to go, and those days worried Clint more. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, she dragged her feet more than usual, to the point that Clint called home and asked to stay out longer, and when he got grudging permission, asked Natasha if she wanted to go somewhere for dinner.

"Is not a date," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"I know," Clint said. He hadn't even thought of that, honestly. She was his friend, his best (and okay, fine, only) friend and something was wrong and she didn't want to go home, and that's what friends did, right? They stuck by each other when things sucked. 

"Then okay."

Clint took her to a Chinese restaurant he liked. They sat in a booth in the corner where they could see everyone, and almost no one could see them. Suspicious by nature, Clint liked to know what was going on around him. 

They ate in near silence, not even taking advantage of the fact that they could "talk" with their mouths full without being rude. Clint watched her, and she watched him, and sometimes they caught each other at it and quickly looked away.

After they finished eating, they went to a coffee shop, finding chairs in a corner. Natasha dragged hers closer to Clint's, curling up cross-legged. "You said was long story," she said softly. "Will you tell me?"

Clint wanted to ask why the sudden interest, why _now_ , but he didn't. There was something in the intensity of her gaze, in the way she leaned forward, in the way she'd kept just a little closer to him than usual all day that told him that asking would ruin the moment, might shatter the fragile balance between them completely.

She didn't just want to know, she _needed_ to know, but she was still asking. She was still giving him an out. She understood what it was to not want to talk about something. She had her secrets and she would let him keep his.

But she was his friend. And he trusted her.

"I grew up in the circus," he said. "Me, my mom and dad and my older brother Barney. Moving town to town, never in one place more than a week, doing whatever needed to be done. My dad was a drunk and an abusive asshole. My mom... she tried, sometimes, but mostly she just let him do whatever he wanted. She was just one of those people that I think thought she deserved it." Clint forced himself to relax his hands, which were already starting to ball into fists.

"When I got a little older, one of the performers decided to teach me how to shoot a bow and arrow. He thought maybe I could be part of his act. The Robin to his Batman, y'know?" He looked up and saw Natasha frowning. "You have to have Batman in Russia!"

She shrugged. "Is important?"

"Not really." Clint sighed. "Anyway, he taught me how to shoot, and I was good." It wasn't conceit; it was a simple statement of fact. "Better than him after a while. They called me Hawkeye, and there was no target I couldn't hit. And people would rather watch some boy wonder, some... what's the word?" He looked up at the ceiling as if he'd find it written there.

"Prodigy?"

Clint looked back at her, blinked. "Yeah, that." It still surprised him sometimes, how smart she was, and then he felt guilty for falling into the same trap that others did, assuming because her English wasn't perfect that she was less intelligent. "Some prodigy than an old washed-up wannabe Robin Hood." He glanced at her and saw she was smiling, just a little.

"Robin Hood I know."

She was beautiful when she smiled, and for a second Clint lost his train of thought. She raised her eyebrows expectantly and he had to look away to continue. "It wasn't just because of me that they let him go, but that's how he saw it, and he swore revenge. But then nothing happened, so..." He shrugged.

"It had been over a year. We didn't forget, but I guess we just stopped being worried about it. We should've known better. One night, there was a fire. Somehow he got in and he set the trailer where my family lived on fire. My parents died. Only me and Barney weren't in it when it happened. We saw the smoke, heard the shouting, and we ran toward it. It spread fast, and then... something exploded. I hit the ground and I'm lucky I didn't get burned, but I mean, I was _out_. And when I woke up I was in the hospital and the circus was gone and I couldn't hear a fucking thing. I guess the explosion damaged my ears or something." Clint shrugged again like it wasn't a big deal, but his guts were in knots and every muscle in his body tensed. 

"They leave you behind?" Natasha's eyes were wide.

"Yeah. I dunno if the cops came and no one wanted to own up to the underage kid or if they just decided I was too much trouble now without my parents and damaged goods or what, but they're gone and I'm here."

_You live where? Who?_ She switched into sign language, and Clint didn't question it.

_Foster parents. The Sullivans. They take in broken kids, think they can fix them._

_You are **not** broken._ The motions were emphatic and her glare backed it up.

He didn't know how to respond. Maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn't broken anymore. But he had been, and the credit for fixing him was, in no small part, hers. Because she gave him a reason to give a shit. But he didn't have the words in any language to say that in a way she could hear, understand, or accept.

So all he said was, _Thank you._

When it got late enough that they couldn't avoid going home anymore, they stood awkwardly outside the café, shuffling their feet and avoiding the inevitable for a few minutes more. "I can walk with you," Clint offered, but Natasha shook her head.

"I not see you for few days," she said softly. "My family... we go away for holiday."

"When are you coming back?" Clint asked. There was something in the way that she didn't quite meet his eyes when she said it that immediately had him on edge. "I'll see you in school Monday, right?"

She shrugged, and it was as if all of her fight and fire was gone. "I think."

He clenched and unclenched his hands, fighting the urge to reach out, to pull her close and hold her, to protect her. Not that he could, probably, or that she would let him. But everything about her screamed Something Is Wrong, and ignoring it was killing him.

But what else could he do?

"Is fine, Clint," she said. "Is okay."

"Okay." But it wasn't. And it wouldn't be until he saw her again. How was it possible to miss someone who was standing right in front of you?

"I have to go," she said. But she didn't move. She just looked up at him, biting her lower lip. It was only someone coming out of the café and jostling against her that made her move, and then she turned and started walking fast, hood up, head down, her hands shoved deep in her pockets.

"Natasha!"

She turned, looking back over her shoulder.

Clint raised his hands, making the gestures broad so she couldn't mistake them even from a distance. _I **will** see you._

Natasha turned and kept walking. Clint stood and watched her until long after she was out of sight.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint slept with his phone in his hand, set to vibrate so that if it went off in the middle of the night it would wake him (and not everyone else) up. He'd spent way too much time staring at its blank screen over the past few days, but there had been no calls or texts. Not that he'd expected any, exactly, but it would have been nice to know that Natasha was okay. He'd sent her one message, wishing her a happy Thanksgiving, but there had been no response.

So when his phone started buzzing in his hand somewhere after midnight on Sunday – Monday, really – it took his muddled mind a minute to process what was happening. He blinked at the screen, squinting at the brightness.

**COME DOWN**

_Come down? Come down where?_ He sat up, crawling to the end of his bed and peering out the window. A dark figure stood in the moonlight and he caught a glimpse of a pale face as she looked up.

He pressed a hand to the glass without thinking and she beckoned him impatiently. He held up a finger – one minute – and let the curtain fall back into place as he dressed quickly. He made his way down the stairs, carefully dodging the creaky spots. At the back door, he disabled the alarm, having been given the code as a sign of (obviously misplaced) trust by the Sullivans. He crept out and around the house to where Natasha was standing, her hands shoved in her pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.

_Told you I would see you_ , he signed. He smiled, but she didn't smile back. "Natasha?"

She pressed a finger to her lips, then wrapped her fingers in his sleeve, tugging on it to pull him away. He followed, even though his instincts told him it was a bad idea. There was something wrong, something off, just like there had been before she'd left, but more so.

Natasha led him to the graveyard, to the little shed where she'd already lit a fire. It burned low, and the warmth barely reached past the confines of the circle that contained it. She sat down on a pile of blankets, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and holding out her arm until Clint joined her underneath it. 

_What's happening?_ , he asked. _Why are we here?_

She just shrugged and pressed herself tighter to his side. He wormed his arm around her back, letting his hand rest on her hip, and she didn't protest. He watched the firelight and the way it caught in her hair, like sparks had flown from the flames and nestled in the waves. He tipped his head so that his cheek brushed against them, and then pulled away when he realized what he'd done.

_It's okay_ , she said, the sign small, like she was whispering with her hands. _It's fine._ Her own head came to rest on his shoulder, and for a moment everything felt right. But then she shifted, turned towards him just a little, and pressed her lips to his throat. 

His breath caught, and he knew he should be questioning it as she did it again, a little higher this time, a little closer to his jaw. It was hard to think, though, when most of his blood flow had been diverted from his brain. He brought up the hand that wasn't already touching her and sank it into her curls, cradling the back of her skull. She glanced up at him, and then away, her eyes closing as she kissed him.

It was everything he'd imagined it would be. Not that he'd imagined it. He wouldn't do that. Except sometimes the thoughts crept in when he was alone and things were quiet, and... And it didn't matter now, because now it was really happening. 

There was nothing tentative about the kiss, nothing uncertain. Natasha knew what she wanted, and she was going after it. The kiss was insistent, almost rough, and before Clint could really process what was happening, she was straddling his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, and he thought maybe he should be embarrassed but if she minded she gave no indication.

The night was cold, but it didn't take long for Clint to feel overdressed in his heavy coat. When Natasha slid down the zipper and pushed it off his shoulders, it was a relief. She was only wearing a hoodie, but her skin, at the small of her back where he slipped his fingers underneath, was damp. 

Clothes came off, not all but enough, and Natasha pushed Clint down. He opened his eyes, looking up at her as they reached the point from which there was no turning back, and stopped. His hands stilled and he felt as if a bucket of ice had been dumped over him, because even in the unsteady light of the fire, he could see the tracks on her cheeks, and they were not from sweat. 

"Stop," he said, his voice low. "Natasha..."

Maybe she didn't hear, or maybe she just ignored him, but she didn't stop. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. "Natasha. Natalia. Stop."

She looked at him then, finally. Maybe it was the flickering light or maybe she was just hiding behind a mask as usual (except it was becoming less and less usual with him, and that made it even more unsettling) but Clint couldn't read her at all. He had no idea what was going on in her head, why after all of her insistence that them going out together wasn't a date, and there being absolutely no indication that she had any interest in him that way at all, she was suddenly all over him, but _crying_ about it.

"You don't have to do this," he said softly. 

Her eyes narrowed then, and she yanked her hand out of his grasp. He could see that her lips were moving, but he couldn't hear anything. It was only then that he realized that he hadn't put in his hearing aids. He held up a hand. "Natasha, I can't hear you," he said, signing the words at the same time. He turned his head slightly and tapped his ear. "I forgot."

She turned away from him, dragging what clothing remained back into place and tugging on that which had been discarded. Clint did the same, because without her body heat pressed up against his, it was too cold. But when she started to get up, he reached out and grabbed her arm, not wanting her to get away, to just disappear into the darkness where he had no doubt she could make it so that he never saw her again. 

"What's going on?" he asked, signing awkwardly with only one hand, afraid to let go of her. 

_You don't want me,_ she signed, likewise crippled. _Fine._

_That's not true,_ Clint admitted. _But not like this. I don't think **you** want **me** but you're doing this anyway for some reason I don't understand. If I believed that you meant it, that this was what you really wanted..._ He waved his hand vaguely in the air. 

_You know nothing._ If looks could kill, Clint would be dead with the glare that Natasha was leveling at him. _You know nothing and you won't have another chance._

_What?_

This time she was the one waving him away, and she turned so that he couldn't see her face anymore. Clint pushed himself up, closing the distance between them, putting his hands on her arms but she stepped back out of his grasp. "'Tasha, you're _crying_ ," he whispered. "You were crying when..." 

She didn't answer, but when Clint touched her again, she didn't retreat. He slipped his arms around her, pulling her close until her head was on his shoulder, her face buried in the collar of his coat and against the skin of his neck, and it sent a shiver down his spine, calling to mind memories of the very recent past, and what he could have had and what he'd refused.

But it had been the right thing to do, because he wasn't wrong. She had been crying, was still crying, and he didn't know why but it was important. He was sure it was important. 

He laced his fingers into her curls again, massaging the back of her neck gently. "It's okay, 'Tasha," he whispered. "It'll be okay."

Clint could feel her shaking her head, could feel her tensing up again, and he wished he'd kept his mouth shut because a second later she had let go of him and was staring him down again. _I'm sorry,_ he signed. 

_It's not okay,_ she replied. _You know nothing. I thought... I gave you a chance. I gave us both a chance. Remember it was you who said no._ She grabbed a bucket of water and dumped it over the fire, plunging them into sudden darkness. She stomped on the coals, making sure it was well and truly out before heading back out into the night.

Clint followed more slowly, his eyes still adjusting. It took him a few minutes to catch up, and he was honestly surprised that she let him do so. "You can tell me, Natasha," he said. "I told you. You can tell me."

Her skin was silver in the moonlight, all color washed away, and her hands flashed. _It's not the same. Yours is the past. Mine is now. Always. You know **nothing**._

_I never will if you don't tell me!_

Natasha's hands balled into fists. She wrapped her arms around herself, then let them drop again, her weight shifting backwards like she might turn and bolt at any moment, and Clint half expected her to. "Есть не слова, за то, что я не могу вам сказать," she said finally, but of course Clint couldn't hear her, and even if he had been able to, he wouldn't have understood.

"Natasha, I—"

_I know._ She finally stopped rocking and looked at him. _I wish I could make you understand. I can't. But it doesn't matter. It will be all right._

_But you said—_

_It doesn't matter what I said. Just forget it. Forget everything. It was stupid. I have to go home._

The resignation in her face, the finality of her words, tied Clint's stomach in knots. He wasn't sure how much of everything he was supposed to be forgetting, but he didn't want to forget any of it. It felt important that he _not_ forget, not any part of it. He just didn't know _why_ , but he was going to figure it out.

_Will I see you tomorrow?_

Natasha looked away again. _I hope._ Because they'd learned the sign now. 

_Me too._

She nodded and turned to walk away. Clint wanted to call after her, but he couldn't manage to get the words past his teeth. So he was left with a tangle of thoughts and wishes that might never see the light of day.


	6. Chapter 6

Clint's stomach was in knots as he waited outside the school for Natasha. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stomping them occasionally to try and keep his blood flowing. The closer it got to the bell, the more sure he was that she wasn't going to show up. If she didn't...

If she didn't he would go find her, he decided. He didn't care what the Sullivans or Mr. Coulson or anyone said. They didn't understand. Circus folk looked after their own, and even if this wasn't the circus, and as far as he knew she'd never been part of that life, the sentiment still held. She was 'folk' to him, with all of the complicated, sometimes conflicting feelings that went along with it. 

Trouble was, he had nowhere to start. He could go back to the cemetery, to the place where they parted ways, and head in that direction, but for all he knew, she turned around and went the opposite way as soon as he was ought of sight. He was used to secrets, but she took them to a whole new level.

He was spared having to figure it out when she came running up, her cheeks flushed with exertion and cold, dark smudges under her eyes from lack of sleep. _You didn't have to wait for me out in the cold,_ she scolded.

_Yes I did,_ Clint countered. 

Natasha rolled her eyes and reached out to nudge his elbow, jerking her chin towards the door. _Come on, idiot._

He trailed after her, his forehead furrowing as he watched her walk. She glanced back at him and he caught up, falling into step beside her. She seemed calm today, nothing like the night before, but maybe it was an act. Or maybe last night had been an act. He wanted to confront her about it, but he knew her well enough to know that it wouldn't get him anywhere. Natalia Romanova didn't say anything she didn't want to. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him in her own time, and on her own terms.

It didn't seem fair.

Maybe _she_ could just pretend last night had never happened, but he couldn't. He'd tried to do as she'd told him and forget it, but it was impossible. He'd barely slept, worrying about her and trying to figure out just exactly what the hell had happened. 

He stopped walking, caught her arm to stop her too. _Natasha. We need to—_

_Stop. Now._ The façade of calm dropped away in an instant, although Clint couldn't help wondering if anyone but him would have seen the difference. But it was there, in the way she set her jaw and the way her shoulders tensed and the blue of her eyes seemed to develop edges. 

_I'm not going just **forget**._

She closed the distance between them with a quick step, taking another that forced him back against the wall. When she pointed at him, signing 'you', her finger jabbed into his chest. _You have to._

And then she was gone, leaving the faint scent of smoke in wake, the remnants of their campfire caught in her hair.

*

"Clinton Barton. I have a pass for you." The slip of paper was unceremoniously handed over by his bored-looking homeroom teacher.

Clint looked at it and frowned. It was a summons to see Mr. Coulson, but the time on it put it during his lunch. Could teachers do that? Make you miss lunch? Wasn't it some kind of state law or something that kids had to be allowed to eat at school? 

When he met up with Natasha later, she shoved a piece of paper at him, her forehead furrowed. _What?_ , she signed.

_Don't know, but I got one too._

_Do we have go?_

Clint shrugged. It didn't seem like the greatest idea to blow Mr. Coulson off, but at the same time, maybe if he could get Natasha alone somewhere she would decide to talk about whatever was going on with her, with them. 

Then again, maybe she wouldn't, but spending lunch in silence with her still seemed like more fun than spending it with the school social worker. They hadn't done anything wrong, after all, so what possible reason could he have for dragging them into his office?

_I don't want to._ Natasha's jaw was set. 

_So we don't,_ Clint replied. _Meet me outside?_

There was the barest hint of hesitation before she nodded, but it was enough to make Clint wonder whether she actually would or not, and if she didn't, whether it would be by her own choice, or something else.

*

When lunchtime came around, though, their plans to skip out on their meeting with Mr. Coulson were foiled by the fact that he just happened to be standing by the doors they would usually go out, and he spotted them before they could turn around and go out another way.

"You're going the wrong way," he told them. "My office is that way." He pointed, as if they didn't already know. 

"It's our lunch time," Clint said. "You can't deprive us of lunch."

"Did you pack your lunch, or are you buying it?" Mr. Coulson asked.

"What does it matter?" 

"If you need to buy lunch, you can go and get it first, then come straight to the office. You can eat there." Mr. Coulson smiled, but it didn't reassure Clint in the slightest. 

"Why? Aren't you required to give us some down time during the day?" Clint demanded.

"Not when there's a chance that you might decide to wander off and not come back for the rest of your classes," Mr. Coulson replied.

Natasha, who had been looking back and forth between them like she was watching a tennis match, finally spoke up. "Not true," she said, scowling. "You tell us no, we stop. You cannot punish us for crime we have not done. Is not Russia."

"You're not being punished," Mr. Coulson said. "I'm giving you both an opportunity."

"Opportunity for what?" they asked, almost in unison. It was then that Clint noticed that they had unconsciously closed ranks, nearly shoulder to shoulder as they stood there, facing off against authority. 

"An opportunity to integrate yourselves more fully into the school community. An opportunity to expand your horizons. And no," he said, again with that thin smile that was the opposite of comforting, "you don't have a choice. So if you have your lunch with you, come on."

"America is country of freedom," Natasha grumbled. "Where is freedom now?"

"This is school. Pretty sure it's more like Russia," Clint said. He meant it as a joke, but it obviously didn't sit well with Natasha.

"You know nothing," she said, shifting away from him as they made their way to Mr. Coulson's office.

When they walked in, they were surprised to find that they were not alone. There were three others in the room, and while they were still standing in the doorway, trying to figure out just exactly Mr. Coulson was throwing them into, two more came up behind them.

"What is this? This better not take long, because I am _not_ missing physics for this! We're having a very important lecture today and if I'm not there to correct Mr. Jackson, none of the other students will ever learn anything."

"You're not going to miss any class," Mr. Coulson said. "Everyone, please find a seat."

There were a few armchairs and a battered couch, and some cushions on the floor. Clint touched Natasha's wrist, and she followed him over to the couch, sitting down next to him, leaving space between herself and the thin boy already seated there, wheezing slightly. 

"Are you all right, Steve?" Mr. Coulson asked him. "Do you need to go to the nurse?"

"I'm fine," the boy said. "I already took my inhaler."

"All right," Mr. Coulson said. "Now that everyone is here, why don't we start with introductions?"

"Why don't you start with telling us why we're here?" a boy with long, greasy black hair sneered. "I'm sure I'm not the only one simply _dying_ to find out why we've all been summoned to this gathering."

"Stop being melodramatic, Loki." This time it was the football team's star quarterback speaking, and everyone turned to look at him. The rest of them, it was more or less obvious why they might end up in some kind of... support group? God, Clint hoped not... but not him. What the hell could he possibly need support for? He had the entire school's support, after all, and Clint couldn't imagine that his parents did anything but dote on him. 

"Don't tell me what to do," the one called Loki snapped. "I am _sick_ of you telling me what to do. Everyone else may think you're perfect, but—"

"I don't tell you what to do," the quarterback said. "I may offer suggestions from time to time, but I don't tell you what to do."

"Suggestions. Right. Loki, why don't you—"

"Enough," Mr. Coulson said, calm but firm. "I've asked you all here today because I've decided to implement a program to develop a group of students who will act as leaders in the school community. Not like student council, but more of a group of people who will be willing and able to step up when they are needed and serve as role models for their fellow students."

This earned a snort from the one so concerned about getting to class on time, and Clint felt Natasha stiffen beside him. He glanced at her and saw that her expression had gone hard and cold again. 

"And you think we're those people?" Loki asked. "Really?"

"I think that you can be. I think that all of you have it in you," Mr. Coulson said. "Now. Introductions."

"Why us?" a boy with glasses and hunched shoulders asked from his place where it seemed he had been trying to hide in plain sight up until that moment. "You can't just tell us we're going to be leaders. Shouldn't you have... asked for volunteers or something?"

"There were others involved in making the decision as to who to invite to this group," Mr. Coulson said. "Now why don't you start us off?"

The boy squirmed. "What do you want to know?"

"Your name, what grade you're in, anything else you'd like to share with us. It doesn't have to be anything too involved."

"Right." He scrubbed his hand through his hair and pushed his glasses up his nose. "My name is Bruce. I'm a junior. Uh. I like science and math... and I don't usually like group projects." The last few words were mumbled, and he sounded almost apologetic saying them.

"Next," Mr. Coulson said, pointing.

"My name is Tony Stark. I'm a sophomore but I take some of my classes at the local community college. I'm the smartest person I know, and the richest. I do not play well with others." He smirked and crosses his arms across his chest, raising an eyebrow and looking at them all expectantly.

"I'm Thor," the blonde football star said, his voice sounding too loud in the small room. His very presence seemed to fill all available space. "I'm a senior, and the quarterback on the football team. I do like group projects and I do play well with others. It's nice to meet all of you. Oh, and Loki is my brother." He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"I'm not his brother," the greasy-haired boy snapped. "I'm adopted. I'm Loki, I'm a sophomore, and I hate school. I'm also tired of living in the shadow of the golden boy." He glared at his brother, who didn't seem to notice. 

"If you hate school, what do you like?" Mr. Coulson asked. 

"Drama," Loki said. 

"I'm Steve," the wheezing boy said. "I'm a senior, and my favorite subject is art. I'm sure no one will agree with me, but I think this group is a good idea." He straightened as he made the statement, squaring his shoulders like he expected to be challenged and was preparing for a fight.

Going around the room, Natasha was next, but she kept her mouth shut, and finally Clint spoke up to ease the awkward silence. "I'm Clint. I'm new here. I'm a sophomore, I guess. And this is Natalia. She's a freshman." He glanced at her and she nodded slightly, so he looked at Mr. Coulson. "So now what?"


	7. Chapter 7

"You want me to _what_?" Tony looked at Mr. Coulson as if he'd grown a second head, and the rest of the groups faces were varying shades of disbelief. 

"This is a trust exercise, Tony," Mr. Coulson said patiently. "You need to trust them."

"But I _don't_ trust them," Tony said. "I have no _reason_ to trust them. I don't know these people! Yet you expect me to close my eyes and allow them to shove me around. Are you _insane_?"

"It's not shoving," the social worker explained. "They will gently push you, and then someone else will catch you, and then push you toward someone else. Your feet will be on the ground the entire time. If you feel uncomfortable, you can simply—"

"Of _course_ I feel uncomfortable. What kind of teacher suggests that a student allow himself to be manhandled by a bunch of – and I'm sure you'll all forgive me for saying so – misfits?"

"Who are you calling misfit?" Thor asked. "I fit in just fine, wherever I go. I am a friend to all!"

"Uh... you stole my poptart," Clint pointed out. "Actually, Natalia's poptart. I was saving it for her. But you stole it."

"I didn't—"

"It was weeks ago. You probably don't remember. But you did. That's not very friendly." Clint crossed his arms. 

"I'm sure he said 'please'," Loki said, rolling his eyes. "He's unfailingly polite when it comes to stomping all over people." He glared at his brother - _adopted_ brother – but the tall blond didn't seem to notice.

"Well, then, uh... I'm sorry," Thor said. "It won't happen again."

"Can we just get on with this?" Bruce asked. "He's probably going to keep us here until we do what he asks, so let's just get it over with."

"He can't keep us here indefinitely," Tony said. "We have to go to class. He can't keep us away from our education – tragic though it is – just because he's decided to make us some kind of pet project, and I have a hot date with history coming up." He grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

"I'll go first," Steve volunteered. "You don't have to, Tony. It's okay."

Tony looked for a second like he might change his mind and decide to go first after all, just because his ego couldn't take having someone else volunteer to do something that he wouldn't. But then he stepped back, holding his hand out. "Be my guest. It's your funeral."

Steve shook his head. "No one is going to get hurt. It's all perfectly safe, as long as everyone does what they're supposed to." But standing in the middle of the group, he couldn't hide the fact that his chest was rising and falling more rapidly than normal. His attempt to sneak a quick puff on his inhaler was... well, not very sneaky.

But he closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, allowing himself to be pushed from one person to another, and not even flinching (well, maybe flinching a little) when Mr. Coulson had them all take half a step back so the distance he was falling (in a perfectly safe, controlled fashion) increased. 

"What is the point of this, anyway?" Clint said. "And don't say, 'To develop trust,' because yeah, I got that part. But why? What does it matter?"

"It's a team-building exercise," Mr. Coulson said. "If you're going to work together, you need to trust each other, and be able to, well, work together, cooperatively, towards a common goal. Now, would you like to go next?"

Clint's jaw tensed, but he let one shoulder rise then drop. "Fine. Whatever." They hadn't dropped Steve, after all, so why would they drop him? So he closed his eyes and crossed his arms and let himself be tipped and tilted, this way, then the other. He could tell after a round or two who was touching him when... especially when it was Natalia. Not because she was more gentle than the others – she was just as strong as most of them – but because her touched lingered, just for a second, like she didn't want to push him away.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. 

When Coulson told them to switch, he stepped out of the circle, taking his place beside her again. 

_Okay?_ , she signed, her body turned to hide it from the group.

_Okay,_ he replied. 

Even so, Natasha was the last to go into the center of the circle, and she glared at each of them in turn before closing her eyes. Clint was practically holding his breath as she moved from one set of hands to another, waiting for something to go wrong, because it seemed – and as it turned out, _was_ \- inevitable.

Because when she got pushed toward Tony, his hands "slipped" and somehow, despite the fact that Natasha's arms were crossed over her chest, he managed to cop a feel. She made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a growl, her eyes snapping open. Tony didn't even have a chance to react before she was on him, smaller than he was but also faster and with the element of surprise. She knocked him backward, straddling his hips and fastening her hands around his throat.

"Natalia, stop!" Mr. Coulson yelled, as Thor charged in to pull her off, holding her tightly as she thrashed, trying to escape his grip. "That is not how we solve our problems!"

She cursed at him in Russian, digging her nails into Thor's arm hard enough to draw blood. He let her go with a yelp, rubbing at his damaged skin, but the others blocked her path.

With everyone's attention on Natasha, trying to contain her and keep her away from Tony, Clint realized that no one was looking at him. Which was how he was able to tackle Tony back to the ground, pinning him there with as he swung, landing a punch solidly on his jaw and reaching back to do it again, the beat him until he bled, until he learned that _no one_ touched Natasha unless she wanted them to.

But someone caught his arm, and he was startled to find when he looked up that it was Bruce. Quiet, mild-mannered Bruce, who usually seemed to want to just stay neutral in any conflict that arose. Bruce, who seemed to simply accept most things without becoming overly emotional about anything. Bruce, who now looked like he might tear Clint's throat out with his teeth if he so much as looked at him the wrong way.

"Get. Off. Of. Him."

"He attacked Natalia," Clint said, yanking against the other boy's grip even though all of his instincts told him to do what Bruce said if he wanted to keep all of his limbs attached to his body and all of his bones intact. "He started it."

"It was an accident!" Tony whined, rubbing his jaw. 

"It wasn't an accident," Clint snapped. "Don't lie."

Tony seemed to consider, weighing the price of continuing to try and get away with what he'd done versus the potential risks, and finally came down on the side of honesty being the best policy. "Okay, fine, it wasn't an accident. But I wasn't trying to hurt her!"

"Your intent doesn't matter, Mr. Stark," Mr. Coulson said. "Your actions are in strict violation of the school's harassment policy, and I am going to have to report this to Principal Fury for disciplinary action."

"Haven't I been disciplined enough?" Tony asked. "Not that the idea of an hour or two in Fury's dungeon doesn't—"

"I think you'd better stop right there," Mr. Coulson said, "before I have to report whatever you were about to say to him as well."

Tony smirked, and Clint very nearly managed to wrest his arm from Bruce's grip to punch him again. But the science geek was stronger than he looked - _a lot_ stronger – and Clint felt the bones of his wrist grate together. 

"Mr. Banner, let Mr. Barton go," Mr. Coulson ordered. "Mr. Barton, get off of Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark, principal's office. Now."

For a second, everyone was still, before they all seemed to simultaneously realize that now was not the moment to mess with the social worker. There was something in his eyes that said that things would end very badly for all of them if they did.

"Natalia, you'll need to come to, so you can tell Principal Fury what happened," he said more gently. "I'm sorry that Mr. Stark was not more respectful."

"You are sorry?" Natasha sniffed. "I not care if _you_ are sorry. _He_ ," she glared icily at Tony, "is not sorry. You can make him say so, but it mean nothing. Apology is empty words."

Mr. Coulson sighed. "I still need you to tell Principal Fury what happened."

"Do I have choice?"

"No."

"Of course not," she grumbled. "Why I would have choice?"

"The rest of you, go to your next class," Mr. Coulson said. "It's almost time for the bell anyway." He turned and began to lead Tony and Natasha away, one of them carefully on each side, but Tony balked.

"How come _he_ isn't in trouble?" he demanded, pointing at Clint. "He hit me!" He pointed to his face and the bruise forming along his jaw. 

"He was defending—"

"So I defend myself, is problem and I have trouble, but a boy defend me and is fine?" Natasha demanded, crossing her arms. 

"That's not what I said, Natalia. You aren't in trouble."

"So I can sort of not quite accidentally have my hand brush against her and I have to see the principal but they can punch and choke me and that's totally fine?" Tony squawked. " Do you have any idea what kind of message that's sending? You could do me irreparable emotional and psychological harm, not to mention the damage to my visage, and—"

"I am not going to say anything," Natasha said. "Is фигня."

Mr. Coulson sighed. "If you aren't willing to tell Principal Fury what happened, then we can't—"

"I know." Natasha sounded almost smug. 

The social worker all but threw his hands up. "Fine. All of you get to class."

Natasha flashed Tony a look that clearly said that nothing was forgiven or forgotten, then turned and walked away. Clint started to follow, but she turned back and glared. _You,_ she signed, stabbing her finger at his chest. _I don't need you._ Clint stopped, staring at her. _I can fight my own battles. Don't you ever forget that._

He was left standing in the middle of the hall, watching her back as she walked away. It was starting to feel like a habit.


	8. Chapter 8

Natasha didn't show up at the library that afternoon. Clint went back to the school afterward, just in case she'd stayed there for some reason, but he couldn't find her. He considered going to see Mr. Coulson, to tell him, but he wasn't a snitch, and anyway, it was the social worker's fault that she was so angry at him in the first place.

Well, partly. It was partly his own fault, too, but if Mr. Coulson hadn't decided they all needed to play stupid games to learn to trust each other for reasons that none of them yet understood, the fight would never have happened, and he never would have stepped in to try and protect her.

No, telling someone wasn't the answer. He was just going to have to find her himself. Only trouble was, as he'd realized more than once before, he had no idea where to even start looking. He'd never tried to follow her home before, and now she wasn't here to follow.

In the end, he just sent her a text message apologizing for what had happened earlier, and went home. She would be over it in the morning, or she wouldn't, and if she wasn't he would deal with it then. There was no predicting with girls, he'd learned... or really with anyone. People didn't make sense, and any time you thought you'd gotten someone figured out, they would turn around and surprise you. Usually in a bad way. 

The next morning, he waited outside the school long past the late bell, earning himself a detention when he finally got to class after giving up on her appearing. For all he knew, she'd snuck in another door. It wasn't impossible, if she was really trying to avoid him. Hell, it was even probable. He didn't learn anything in a single class. He was too busy trying to figure out ways to make her not pissed off at him anymore. Time was probably the only thing that would fix it, just giving her time and space for her anger to abate, but those were the hardest things to give. When you only had one friend, one person you could really communicate with who understood you, it wasn't exactly high on your list of priorities to let that person walk away for as long as they felt like it.

Clint didn't see Natasha all that day, or the next. The texts he sent her were increasingly frequent and increasingly worried, and they all went unanswered. He tried to justify it – maybe she'd lost her phone, or maybe it was out of battery – maybe she was just still mad, but she'd never stayed angry at him for this long, because maybe he was flattering himself, but he was pretty sure that he was the only friend she really had, too, and maybe she was used to being alone but so had he been and that all changed with her – but a knot formed in the pit of his stomach and refused to let loose. Something was _wrong_.

When she still hadn't shown up two days later, Clint decided that he wasn't going to just wait around anymore. No way. That weekend, he was going to find her, and he was going to make sure that she was all right. And he had an idea as to how he was going to track her down.

There was just one problem: he needed help.

*

_Just keep it simple_ , he told himself. _Too many details to remember and it all unravels._

He was banking on the fact that Steve Rogers was generally a pretty trusting sort, a good kid (probably even a _boy scout_ ) who thought it was his duty to help others or some shit. He was also banking on the fact that Steve was probably gullible, and yet smooth or charming or charismatic or whatever it took enough to get the information that Clint needed. 

Clint approached him at lunch, where Steve was sitting with a group of other could-maybe-be-popular-if-they-tried-but-they-didn't kids, straight-A students with laundry lists of extracurriculars who would all be vying for Most Likely To Succeed when the yearbook came out. 

"Can I talk to you?" he asked, looking directly at Steve. 

"Sure, of course," the other boy said, looking slightly puzzled but not suspicious. Not yet. "Have a seat."

"Uh... privately," Clint said. 

Steve's eyebrows drew together, but he nodded. "I'll be right back, guys," he told the others, and got up, following Clint out of the cafeteria and a little ways down the hall. "What's up?"

"I need a favor," he said. "I know you have no reason to help me, but you're the only person I can think of who might be able to." He put on his best worried look, complete with wide, concerned eyes. It wasn't that hard, all things considered. 

"What is it?" Steve asked, his expression echoing Clint's concern. A good sign, he figured.

"Natash—Natalia hasn't been in school since the day of the trust thing. I texted her and she said she's sick. I wanted to go see her, bring her some soup or something, but... I don't actually know where she lives, and when I asked, she told me not to come over because she didn't want me to catch it. But... if I was sick, I wouldn't want to be alone," Clint said, ratcheting up the puppy dog look slightly.

"I'm not really sure how I can help you," Steve said. "I don't know her at all, really. I definitely don't know where she lives."

"But you help out in the office, right?" Clint knew that Rogers was some kind of office errand boy during his free periods or something; he'd seen him there while waiting to speak to Principal Fury on any number of occasions. "I know it's against the rules, but... couldn't you just look her up in the computer quick? I just need the address. I know she didn't mean it when she said she wanted me to stay away. She just said it because she thought she had to. I'm sure of it." 

Clint could see Steve wavering, literally shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he considered it. Steve Rogers was not a rule breaker. Steve Rogers always did what was right and just and good. But what was right here? Following the rules to the letter, or helping someone help a friend? It was the conflict that Clint had been counting on. Because there were rules that were made by people, and then there were rules that made you a good person, Clint figured. 

Finally Steve nodded, but he was frowning, and Clint wasn't sure what that meant. "I'll try," he said. "Meet me after school at the front doors. I'm not promising anything, and if I get caught..." He shrugged. Clint took it to mean that if he got caught, Steve wouldn't trying to cover up the fact that Clint had asked him to do it. 

"It's okay," he said. "All you can do is try. Thank you."

At the end of the day, he met Steve as promised. The older boy was looking around like he thought the police were going to swoop down on him at any moment, like was about to participate in a drug deal instead of just handing over a piece of paper with an address written on it in tight, neat printing. "Good luck," he said.

"Thank you," Clint repeated, stuffing the paper into his pocket. 

"You're welcome," Steve said, and turned and walked away. Clint watched him go, surprised that Rogers hadn't said anything about owing him one. Even if he didn't say it, Clint knew it was true. Nothing in life was free.

*

The area where Natasha lived was run down, not quite the bad part of town, but getting there. As Clint made his way through the streets, he picked up on what seemed like every language _but_ English being spoken. Some of it even sounded like Russian, from what limited experience he had with the language. (Mostly he'd just heard Natasha swearing in it.)

The address Steve had written down was a store front, and Clint's heart sank. Had he written it down wrong? Had they given the school a fake address? But the building went up beyond what had to be the ceiling of the shop, so maybe there was an apartment above it or something. Maybe Natasha's family owned the place.

He watched the door from across the street, something telling him that just walking in would be a bad idea. Finally he saw a flash of bright red hair inside, and his heart pounded harder even as relief flooded through him. The address wasn't wrong. There she was... but why? Why was she here and not in school?

He stayed there past dark, and finally she stepped outside to bring in the sign they had sitting out on the sidewalk. He checked the road quickly before dashing across. "Natasha!" he called, not so loudly as to draw attention, but loudly enough that she heard and looked up.

She did _not_ look happy to see him. "What are you doing here?" she hissed. 

_I came to see you,_ he signed. _You've been missing for days. I was worried._

"Not here," she said, swatting his hands down. "I not need your worry. Go home. You cannot be here."

"Why not?" he asked. "It's a free country." The words sounded petulant even in his own ears, and he regretted them as soon as they were out of his mouth. 

Natasha snorted. "Free for who? Not you. Not me. Go home, Clint. This is not place for you." She grabbed his shoulder and pushed, but he didn't budge. 

"Natasha, what's—"

"Этот мальчик беспокоит вас, Наталья?"

Clint turned and saw a man, tall and broad with several days of stubble and a scar that carved through his right eyebrow and down his cheek, glaring down at him.

"Нет, дядя. Он просто пришел, чтобы принести мне домашнее задание. He was just leaving." Natasha glared at Clint, her jaw set. 

"Right," he said. "I'll see you in school Monday, right?"

She hesitated, then nodded, a sharp jerk of her head. "Thank you for bringing homework," she said. "Have good night."

"You too," Clint said, and started to walk away, not turning his back, not yet. He was glad that he didn't, because as soon as the man turned his back, Natasha signed hastily, _Fire. Tonight._

Clint just waved, but found himself grinning the whole way home.


	9. Chapter 9

"Where are you going?" Devon hissed, poking his head out of his bedroom door. 

"Bathroom," Clint mumbled. "Why are you awake?" Devon shrugged. "Go back to bed and mind your own business."

"Are you doing something bad? I'm gonna tell Mom and Dad." Because he'd been there long enough to think of the Sullivans as parents instead of keepers. This was his home, not just a waystation like it was for Clint. 

"I ain't doing anything," Clint snapped. "How about I tell them about how you're awake when you were sent to bed three hours ago? How about I tell them how you're buying candy and hiding it when you're not supposed to have it? How about I tell them how when they're not home you take hour long showers and we all know what you're doing in there?"

Devon's cheeks flushed and his jaw clenched. "You don't know anything and you wouldn't dare!"

Clint rolled his eyes. "You wanna try me?" The boy didn't immediately answer and Clint smirked. "That's what I thought. Now let me go piss in peace. Go back to bed."

He waited until his foster brother (not that he thought of him as any kind of brother at all, but that's what the Sullivans called him and he had to play along or end up spending more time with a shrink or whatever to quote-unquote help him adjust) had closed his door, then went into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack so that if anyone else got up, they wouldn't be suspicious of the closed door when no one was in there, then climbed out the bathroom window, sliding down the roof and landing not as lightly as he would have liked on the ground below. He'd disabled the sensor that would trip the alarm on that window earlier. If all went well, he'd be back in his room long before anyone else woke up and had a chance to notice anything was amiss.

He made his way to the cemetery at a jog, not wanting to keep Natasha waiting... if she showed up. He knew that there was a possibility – a good one – that she wouldn't show up at all. Something might come up, or she might have just said that to get him to walk away, or who knew what. But he had to believe that she would, that maybe, finally, he was going to find out something about what was going on in the part of her life that she didn't let him see.

There was a pile of wood in the corner of their broken down little shelter, and he started a fire, keeping it small so that if anyone else happened to be wandering around the area at this time of night, it wouldn't draw attention. He huddled as close to it as he dared, shifting every so often to warm a new part of himself.

He glanced at his phone, checking the time or to see if Natasha had sent him any messages. 12:37 am, and nothing. He decided he would give her until 12:45, and then he would text her. 

He was just reaching for his phone again when she arrived, her curls even more unruly than usual. She looked as if she'd been running, and looked around as if she thought she was being followed. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around herself, sinking down next to Clint, but at an angle so they could see each other's faces. 

_It's good to see you,_ he signed. _I was worried._

Natasha nodded, but didn't say anything. Her hands were tucked up under her arms, huddling against the cold, and she looked everywhere but directly at him. 

_I didn't think you'd come,_ he added. _I was afraid you wouldn't. That... that someone would stop you. That man._

She curled up tighter, and Clint frowned. More than anything, he wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her it was all right, but he didn't know that, and more than likely the opposite was true. More than likely, there wasn't much, if anything, that he could do about it, and he didn't want to push her away by trying to reassure her with lies.

But he did reach out and touch her arm, squeezing it gently. She glanced up at him then, and he couldn't read everything that was in those wide blue eyes, but he knew at least a little bit of it was fear, and he was pretty sure that it wasn't actually directed at him.

_Who is he, Natasha?_

_My uncle,_ she responded finally, and a moment later added, _I live with him._

_Where are your parents?_

_Dead._

_I'm sorry._

Natasha shrugged. _Not your fault and sorry doesn't change anything._

_I know. But I understand what it's like to not have your parents. Even if sometimes I think I'm better off._ It was the truth. He missed the circus sometimes; he certainly missed the freedom that he'd had there. But did he miss his parents? Not really.

_They died a long time ago. When I was small._  
I don't really remember them.  
I remember the night it happened.   
I remember the fire.   
I used to be afraid of fire.  
Now I'm not afraid of anything. 

The confessions trickled slowly from her fingers, the pauses in between getting longer and longer until the last, which Clint was absolutely certain was a lie. She was afraid of things. She was afraid of her uncle. He wasn't stupid and he wasn't blind. It was written all over the way she'd put herself between them in front of the store earlier that day, and the way she was curled in on herself to protect her vitals just thinking about him.

_Have you lived with him since then?_ Clint asked.

_No. I lived in an orphanage after they died. My uncle was already here, and there was no one else who came forward. I didn't even know I had an uncle. My mother never said she had a brother. Sometimes... I wonder if he's really related to me at all. But he says he is, and he turned up to claim me just when I was about to be turned out and... now I'm here._

_Why?_ Clint frowned. _Why did he turn up out of the blue?_

_I don't know._

But her eyes darted away again. Not the truth. She could look other people straight in the eye and lie to them without hesitation, but not him. Maybe she could for little things, but not the big ones. Those she couldn't hide for him, or maybe it was just that she wasn't trying. Maybe she wanted him to keep asking questions. Maybe she wanted to tell him, but just couldn't find the words.

_Is he why you haven't been in school?_

Natasha shrugged, then nodded. _He needed help._

_He has to let you go to school,_ Clint said. _It's the law. He can get in trouble if he keeps you out of school._

She shrugged again. _Doesn't matter,_ she signed. _I do what he wants._

_Why?_

_I'm cold._

It wasn't even a subtle dodge. _What does he want you to help with? The store?_

_Please. I'm cold._ Natasha looked at him, and her eyes begged him to drop it, to stop asking questions that she didn't want to or couldn't answer. But she wasn't asking to leave. She wasn't trying to stand up, to get away. 

She'd let him in a little, and maybe it wasn't fair to ask for more. He couldn't expect everything all at once, when she had walls around her that were higher and thicker than any he'd ever managed to construct around himself. 

He reached back and grabbed another blanket, wrapping it around both of them and sliding his arms around her, pulling her in until she was sitting between his legs, her back against his chest, his chin resting on her shoulder. He could feel her shaking. 

"Better?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. He couldn't really sign like this; she wouldn't be able to see it. Her hair tickled his face as she nodded. "Good."

Slowly, her shaking subsided, and he felt some of the tension ease. He could feel her breathing slow, even though all of the layers of cloth between them. "Natasha?" he whispered after he wasn't sure how long, but she didn't answer. She was asleep.

He tightened her grip on her just a little, but she didn't stir. Whatever happened, he would keep her safe. If she trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms, then he would never, ever betray that trust. Because it was a rare thing, to find anyone else in this world that you could put that much faith in. But if things were the other way around, he would do exactly the same.

Because she was his friend. His best friend. And when you were Clint Barton's friend, it was to the bone, and it was forever.


	10. Chapter 10

"Before we go, does anyone have anything else for the group?" Mr. Coulson asked. His glance went immediately to Steve, who sat up straighter in his chair. Obviously, they had already discussed this, but were trying to be subtle. Clint wasn't sure why they bothered.

"Actually, I do," Steve said. "I kind of need a favor from all of you, or from any of you who are able to. As some of you know, I've been working on the sets for the school musical – designing and painting – and I have a crew but... well, there have been some unforeseen complications and I need help."

"Unforeseen complications?" Bruce asked, eying him warily.

"Well, I'm not going to point any fingers or name any names, but there was a, uh, altercation with a member of the cast in which certain words were thrown out that, well, upset certain members of the crew. And they went on strike. They're refusing to work until they get an apology, and not just from me." 

Loki stiffened. "I have nothing to apologize for," he sniffed. 

"You called them minions," Thor pointed out.

"They are," Loki said. "They work behind the scenes to make the real stars look good. Isn't that the definition of a minion?"

Tony cleared his throat, reading from the screen of his phone (which of course he wasn't supposed to have). "Minion. Noun. One: a servile follower or subordinate of a person in power. Two: a favored or highly regarded person. Three: a –"

"You see?" Loki said. "I was paying them a compliment, if one uses the second definition."

"I'm pretty sure they assumed you were using the first," Steve said. "In any case, that's all being handled by the production staff. I suspect you'll probably have to meet with them before rehearsal. In the meantime, I need help with the sets. There are pieces that we need to have done as soon as possible so that the cast can start working with them, getting the blocking worked out, all of that. You don't have to be particularly handy; we can find jobs for people of all skill levels." He looked around, blue eyes wide as he flashed them his best smile.

"Count me in," Tony said, not looking up from his phone. "You know I'm never one to pass up the chance to do a good deed for my fellow man." 

_Since when?_ Clint signed, turning his body to shield the motion of his hands from the others. Natasha smirked and nudged her shoulder against his.

Steve look equally surprised by the offer, but he didn't turn it down. "Anyone else?"

"I have rehearsals," Thor said, "but I will be happy to help whenever I am free." He beamed broadly, and Loki scowled. 

"I can try," Bruce said. "I'm not sure..."

"Thanks," Steve said, then turned to look at Clint and Natasha, where they had taken quiet refuge in their usual corner. "What about you guys?" 

Clint glanced at Natasha, who looked back at him. Her jaw was clenched and he could feel the tension in her body where it touched his. But he owed Steve one for helping him find where she lived, and if this was all it was going to take to erase that debt, well, it seemed like he was going to get off pretty easy. "Count us in," he said.

Natasha pinched him, hard, and he twitched but managed to bite back a yelp. "I have to go home," she said. "After school."

"Every day?" Steve asked.

"Every day."

"Even on weekends?" He looked so hopeful, like a puppy begging for scraps. 

Natasha looked away, and Clint could feel her nails digging through his sleeve. He wouldn't be surprised if there were marks by the time she let go. "Maybe on weekend," she said finally. "Maybe."

"We usually start around nine on Saturday mornings and finish up at one," Steve said. "Anyone who can be there, I would really, really appreciate it. Even if we've got the regular crew back on track, we can always use extra sets of hands, believe me. And don't wear anything nice. It'll just get messed up anyway."

*

Which was how Clint found himself sitting in the lobby of the school on a Saturday morning, holding two cups of coffee and waiting for Natasha to arrive. She'd promised that she would try to be there, but he was well aware that a promise to try didn't mean a hell of a lot in the grand scheme of things.

But she showed up, a cup in each hand, and when she saw Clint sitting there she laughed. Her cheeks were flushed and drops of water sparkled in her hair where snowflakes had melted. It must have just started, because it hadn't been snowing when he'd come in. She set them down. _We think the same._

_I guess we won't be sleepy,_ Clint said. Now that she was closer, he could see that she looked like she could use the caffeine boost. There were dark circles under her eyes, and there was something skittish in her gaze. _Everything okay?_

The pause was too long and told him everything he needed to know about the real answer to the question. He waited to see if she would try to lie. 

_For now,_ she replied finally. _We're here._

_I guess we should find the others,_ Clint said, picking up the coffee again and making his way through the halls toward the auditorium. It was barely controlled chaos as they approached, and Natasha dug an elbow into his side to force him back as two guys came barreling in their direction, paying absolutely no attention at all as they waved big foam noodles at each other like they were swords. 

"No," a girl said, putting her hands on her hips. She had long red hair (not as red as Natasha's, Clint couldn't help noticing) and a no-nonsense set to her jaw. "Absolutely not. He is not having anything to do with this production. I won't tolerate it."

"Pepper, he volunteered," Steve said. "I don't see—"

"Of course you don't see," she said. "You're blind to other people's faults, or maybe you've just never spent any time with him, but if there is one thing that Tony Stark does not do, it's volunteer. He doesn't do one tiny bit of work on anything, for anyone, unless there's something in it for him. And I honestly don't care to find out what it is that he wants, so just send him home!"

"I need the help, Pepper," Steve insisted. "I need all the help I can get, and he's good with tools. At least that's what he said, and why would he lie?"

"Because he wants something. He wants to sabotage this whole play, probably, just to annoy me, because his entire existence revolves around driving me insane. Do you want to see me insane, Steve? Do you?"

"Too late," Natasha whispered into Clint's ear, and he stifled a laugh.

"Of course not. I'll keep him out of your way, and I'll make sure that someone keeps an eye on him. I promise. But I need him. There's no way we're going to get things done without every set of hands we can get."

"If he gets within 100 feet of me, you're going to hear about it," Pepper said, poking her finger into Steve's chest.

"Yes ma'am," Steve replied, looking both cowed and slightly amused. 

Pepper turned on her heel and stalked off, glancing down at the clipboard she held and shaking her head. 

"Oh good," Steve said when he saw Clint and Natasha standing there. "You're here. Do either of you have any experience with power tools?"

"Some," Clint said. He'd helped with pretty much every area of the circus at one point or another, and sometimes that involved construction. Natasha just shook her head. 

"What about painting? Are you any good at painting? It's nothing too complicated."

"I can paint," Natasha said.

"Why don't I get you two started there, then? I might have to ask you to help out with more construction later, Clint, but these flats need to get done, and with two of you it shouldn't take long at all." He led them to an area where tarps had been spread on the floor and scenery flats leaned up against the wall. "Just paint them white for now, and then if they dry in time, we can start working on the details."

"Okay," Clint said. "No problem."

Natasha opened up the can of paint and poured it into the tray, and they both picked up rollers. It was easy work, but it didn't allow for much conversation, because they had to keep an eye on what they were doing or they risked painting the walls, which the school probably wouldn't appreciate. They could have talked out loud, but they'd sort of fallen out of the habit, and Natasha seemed lost in her own thoughts anyway.

When they finished, she looked at him. _What now?_

_Wait for them to dry, I guess._

_You have paint on your face._ She took a step closer and poked his cheek, maybe trying to wipe it away, but there was paint on her fingers and it only smeared. She looked at him and grinned. 

_So do you,_ he pointed out, dabbing a spot onto her nose. There hadn't been any there to begin with, but turnabout was fair play. 

When Steve finally got around to checking on them, they were both smeared with paint, and they had collapsed on the floor with their backs pressed together as they caught their breath from laughing. His eyebrows went up. "Looks like it wasn't Tony Pepper needed to worry about after all," he said.

Clint just looked at Natasha, and she looked back. Something wicked sparked in her eyes, and she held up one hand. _One. Two. Three._

They both dipped their hands into the tray of paint and lunged.


	11. Chapter 11

The group met on the last day of school before Christmas break. The mood was subdued, with everyone looking at their hands or the walls or anywhere but at each other. Even Tony, who could usually be counted on for some snarky remark no matter what the occasion, was silent.

"I sense that a lot of you may be having a lot of feelings about the upcoming holidays," Mr. Coulson said. "Does anyone want to talk about it?"

"I thought this wasn't a support group," Tony said. "Why would we talk about our feelings?"

"Because I think for some of you, this may be the only place that you can actually talk about things without fear of repercussions," Mr. Coulson replied. "Anything said in here, stays in here."

Loki snorted. "You can't possibly believe that," he said. "For one, I have someone I live with here, so anything that's said here goes back to our house, even if it's only in his head, and how am I supposed to trust that he isn't going to open his big mouth and blab it to his parents?"

" _Our_ parents," Thor corrected, turning to look at him. "They're _our_ parents, not just mine."

"No, they're not," Loki snapped. "They are not my parents, and they never have been. I am not their son, and you are not my brother. I might have a brother somewhere, a real one, but you are a pale – literally, look at you, how could I have ever have been so stupid as to think that I belonged with you? How could I have ever believed that we really were brothers?"

"We _are_ brothers," Thor insisted. "We grew up together, played together, fought together, did everything together. Just because we don't share blood doesn't change that. We are still family. We will always be family." He looked around at the group, and the look on his face was somewhere between bewildered and betrayed. "He told our parents that he wanted to find his real family for Christmas." He turned to look at Loki. "I'm sorry if you feel like an outsider, but that was never our aim. That was never _my_ aim, anyway, and if you're angry at our parents, I can understand that, but I'm not them, and what have I ever done to you?"

"I was your _shadow_. It was as if they picked me out of a catalog to be the obvious black sheep, the one to take the blame for everything, specially designed to make you look good, to make their _real_ child look better than he actually was, because no matter what you did, you were always better than _me_. And don't you dare say that they don't see me as secondary, second-best, because they do. You all do. I am not your equal, and as long as I live in that house, I will never be anything."

"Oh shut up," Natasha said, and all eyes turned toward her. She rarely spoke, and if it wasn't for the fact that she was the only girl in the room, Clint suspected that people might forget she was there entirely. Today she was jammed up against his side, closer than usual on the couch that they'd claimed for themselves. She'd been getting more and more tense as Loki spoke, and it appeared she had finally reached her limit. "Shut up and stop whining. You have parents. Yes? Maybe not _real_ parents, whatever you mean by that. What a real parent makes? They feed you, give you place to live, give you all you need, love you? Even if you think not enough love, not as much love as for Thor? You have all this, yes? So shut your mouth about real, not real, shadows, all that фигня. You have more than a lot."

Loki opened his mouth, then closed it, obviously thinking better of it. Perhaps he remembered the day of the trust exercises, and the brawl that had ensued. Or perhaps he would take his revenge later. Clint pressed tighter against Natasha at the thought. He didn't like the slimy wannabe diva, and the thought of him coming anywhere near his friend put him on edge.

Mr. Coulson looked over at Natasha, waiting to see if she was going to say anything else. He was probably trying to figure out whether to step in or let them all sort out their differences. It was probably the most honest any of them had been with each other since he'd brought them together, and Clint figured he wanted to see how it play out.

But they all sank back into their individual silences, and it seemed the moment had passed. Natasha was still tense, but Clint had noticed that was pretty much a constant with her these days. She hadn't told him any more about what was going on with her life, and he knew better than to ask. He just met her when and where she asked, and let her lean on him as much or as little as she would allow herself. Eventually, the walls would come down, or at least he hoped they would.

"Does anyone have any plans for the vacation?" Mr. Coulson asked finally. "Is anyone going anywhere?"

Everyone shook their heads except Natasha, but she didn't say anything, either. The silence was heavy, but the social worker let it sit, waiting to see which of them would feel it first, or worst, and say something to break it. 

"It's just me and my dad this year," Bruce said after a minute, his voice quiet. His shoulders hunched in as he clenched his hands between his knees. 

"Me too," Tony said, the words dripping with bitterness. 

"It's me and my mom," Steve said. "It's been ten years since my dad died."

"I'm sure the Sullivans will try to make me feel like part of the family," Clint threw into the quiet that descended. It was the truth, but not all of it. He couldn't help wondering what the others weren't saying.

And again, as usual, Natasha said nothing, although they all glanced at her expectantly, since she was the only one who hadn't volunteered _something_. But with her, the things she wasn't saying were too many, and the things she would say so few that they added up to nothing in the end.

They could hear the ticking of the clock, seconds turning into minutes, and finally Clint got fed up. He was tired of silence. He was tired of keeping everything locked up. "Fuck it," he said, looking at Mr. Coulson and daring him to say anything. "You wanna know how I feel about the holidays? I live with people who ain't my family, but they'll pretend like I am. But I wish that they wouldn't. I ain't part of the family, not their family, not any family anymore, and I don't want them to make a big deal because I'm only there because I have to be and I'd rather be left alone."

The words, the brutal honesty in them, seemed to open a floodgate that Loki's earlier tirade had already knocked a crack in, and it all came pouring out.

"We have to go to a big family gathering every year," Loki said. "All I hear about is Thor, and how I should be more like him."

"At least no one expects you to be perfect," Thor said. "If I could trade with you, I would."

"You don't know what you're saying," Loki said. "You have no idea what it's like to be me!"

"You don't know what it's like to be me either! Do you think it's easy to have everyone expecting you to never make a mistake, to never—"

"My mother is in the hospital," Steve said. "She might not ever leave it. She might not make it to the new year. That's where I'm spending my Christmas."

"I used to live with my grandparents because my father was in jail... because he killed my mother. He says it was an accident. They let him out for good behavior, and my grandparents are letting him see me. But I don't want to see him. I don't ever want to see him again." Bruce's hand clenched tighter, his knuckles turning white. 

Tony reached over and poked him. "You should come over to my place. No one would notice. My dad probably won't even come home from work." He said it like it was no big deal, but the lines in his face said otherwise.

"I don't think I can," Bruce said.

"Well after you see him," Tony said. "Come on. You'd be doing me a favor."

"Um... I'll let you know," Bruce said. "Okay?" He poked his glasses back up his nose, eying Tony almost shyly.

"Sure, okay," Tony said, trying to sound nonchalant, but Clint couldn't help hearing the faintest edge of hope.

Clint felt Natasha's fingers digging into his arm. He looked over at her, but she wasn't looking at him. "My uncle, he have big party for Christmas. Family, he says. I do not know these people. They are not my family. My family is dead since little girl." She spoke for all of them when she said finally, "I hate holiday."


	12. Chapter 12

All in all, Clint decided, Christmas hadn't sucked too much. The other kids had woken up way too early, which had meant that he'd had to get up early too so that no one would be left out of the fun of seeing what Santa had brought. He'd rolled his eyes at that, but the Sullivans had told him on no uncertain terms that if he'd ruined the myth of Santa Clause for his youngest siblings, he would be in deep trouble. He'd considered pointing out the hypocrisy of telling them that Santa was real and then telling the kids that they always had to be honest, but had decided against it. 

They'd been spared the big Sullivan family gathering because one of his quote-unquote brothers was sick, and they didn't want to infect everyone with his cold or whatever it was, which was a relief because it meant that Clint hadn't actually had to tell them that he was absolutely not going. It wasn't his family and he didn't want any part of it. 

Mostly he'd gotten clothes, which he couldn't really deny that he needed even though they'd been generous when they'd done the back to school shopping a few months ago, but there was one gift that they'd actually obviously put some thought into. They'd gotten him a membership at an archery range, so he could go shoot arrows when he wanted to. He still wasn't allowed to keep any in the house, but it was something.

No, it was more than something. It was a huge step, an acceptance of where he'd come from, maybe a show of trust. When he'd said thank you, he'd really meant it. He'd wanted to text Natasha to tell her about it, but since his text from the night before, sent just after midnight to wish her a merry Christmas, had gone unanswered, he didn't really see the point.

He went to bed more or less content, and tried not to worry about where his friend was and how she was faring. She'd said her uncle was having a big family party, but that she didn't know any of the people there. The way she'd clung to his arm during the meeting on the last day of school, the way she'd insisted they go to the library after school even though neither of them had any homework that couldn't wait, and insisted they stay until the librarians had kicked them out, all of it added up to nothing good.

Clint could only be glad that he wasn't too prone to nightmares, or going to sleep might have been that much harder. 

He woke up at 2:17 am to his phone buzzing in his hand. He checked the display, hoping and dreading at the same time that it would be a message from Natasha. 

'I'm outside.'

He looked out his window, and there she was again, standing in the middle of the lawn and looking up at him, just like she had been the last time she'd decided to pay him a visit in the wee hours of the morning. He sent her a text back: 'Come to the back door. Be careful.'

He couldn't make out the details of her face as she looked back up at him after reading the text, but he saw her start to move, so he quickly got up and padded to his door, turning the knob slowly to keep it from making a sound, then making his way as quietly as he could down the hall and the stairs.

He disabled the alarm, wincing at the beep that it made, and hoped that the Sullivans wouldn't notice. They were long since asleep, so there was no reason for them to, but it was still risky. He motioned for Natasha to come in. 

Natasha looked at him as if he'd lost his mind and shook her head, gesturing insistently for him to come out. 

He reached for her, grabbed her hand and tugged. She stepped over the threshold and onto the mat, and he closed the door behind her, reactivating the alarm. He pointed to her shoes, and after a second she seemed to register what he was saying (or not saying). She slipped them off and carried them with her as he led her upstairs. Luckily, she seemed to be as adept at sneaking as he was, because they made it back to his room without anyone waking up, or at least not coming out into the hall if they did.

There was no lock on his door, so he took his desk chair and wedged it under the doorknob, just in case. He could always claim that he'd been barricading it against wayward siblings if he was questioned. He found a flashlight and switched it on to give them enough light to be able to see each other by. 

_Merry Christmas,_ he signed.

Natasha shook her head, but whether she meant it hadn't been merry or that it wasn't Christmas anymore or something else entirely was anyone's guess. _I shouldn't be here,_ she replied finally. _You could get in trouble._

 _I'm always in trouble,_ Clint told her, rolling his eyes. _It's nothing new._

 _For sneaking girls into your room?_

He shrugged, and she scowled. _You wouldn't be here if you didn't need to be,_ he pointed out. _And it's too cold out to go to the cemetery. We're safe here. We just have to be quiet._ He grinned.

It was Natasha's turn to roll her eyes, but she finally slipped off her coat and sat gingerly on the edge of his bed. He sat up near his pillows, tucking his feet under the covers to keep them warm. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, and he watched her openly. 

_How was the party?_ , he asked finally.

She shrugged, her fingers knotting together in her lap before she forced herself to relax them, smoothing her hands over the knees of her jeans. 

_You can stay here 'til morning,_ Clint offered. _We'll worry about sneaking you back out then._

Natasha looked at him more fully, chewing the inside of her cheek. He was so used to her not showing anything, not giving anything away, that that tiny show of uncertainty made his heart beat harder. _You promise it's safe?_

Clint's heart broke for her. Something was wrong, very wrong, for her to ask for that sort of reassurance. She didn't do that. She didn't show weakness. Not even to him if she could help it, which meant she couldn't help it. _I promise._

_Okay._

_Okay,_ he echoed. He got up and went to his drawer, sliding it open and getting out a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. They would be too big on her, but more comfortable than what she was wearing to sleep in. He offered them to her and signed one-handed, _If you want._

He could see her weighing the offer, considering the pros and cons, and finally she reached out and took them. _Don't look._

Clint covered his eyes and turned his back. He didn't open them again until she tapped his shoulder. Just as he'd suspected, she was swimming in his clothes, despite the fact that he wasn't all that big himself. She hugged her arms over her chest and shivered slightly.

 _You want the outside or the wall?_ , he asked.

Again, the calculation, the weighing of the options, and then she slipped into the bed, her back to the wall, facing so that she could see the door. As he slid into the bed beside her, it occurred to him that he probably should have offered to sleep on the floor, but she didn't say anything about it, so neither did he. 

It was hard to sign lying down face to face like this, with barely a hands width between them, and harder still to see what was being signed, so they didn't try. Clint just watched Natasha's face, and she watched his. After a moment, she reached up and touched his ear, gently dislodging his hearing aid, then did the same on the other side. 

She had to lean over him to put them on his night table, and her hair tickled his face as she did. She stopped, still propped up on one elbow, and then leaned down and kissed his cheek, back by his ear. Her lips traced along his jaw, and he had to bite back a groan. 

"'Tasha," he whispered, his lips brushing her skin. She pressed her finger to them, hushing him, and then replaced it with her mouth.

If she'd tried to take things further, if she'd started stripping off their clothing, he wasn't sure he would have stopped her this time. This time, he might have believed she meant it. He certainly _wanted_ to believe that she did. 

But it wasn't more than a kiss... or three. Or four. He lost count somewhere along the way, or maybe he just drifted, because it had been a long day – probably longer for her than for him, but he would have to ask about that in the morning maybe – and he was tired and she was warm and weird as it seemed, as it _was_ , it wasn't about sex.

She tucked her face into the curve of his neck, her arm draped over his waist and his around her shoulders. Three words formed in his mind, but they didn't make it to his lips or even his fingers. He hoped she heard them anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone! 
> 
> I might end up doing a bonus chapter this week... we'll see. :-)


	13. Chapter 13

Waking up with someone else in the bed was disorienting, but only for a moment while he reassembled the pieces of the night before. Clint was honestly surprised that she hadn't found a way to sneak out while he was sleeping, having thought better of the whole situation. But no, Natasha was still asleep, her back pressed to his chest, her hips pressed into... other things.

 _Shit._ Clint tried to shift away, but she only moved with him, and finally he gave up. If she wasn't bothered, then neither was he... much. He glanced at the clock. Not quite six, which would explain why it was still dark. No one would be awake yet, although Mr. Sullivan would have to be up soon for work, and Mrs. Sullivan always got up at the same time. He didn't know if she would let the kids sleep in. 

What it came down to, though, was that they had a little over half an hour to sneak Natasha back out without anyone noticing. So he could let her sleep a while longer. 

When he woke again, light was creeping in, and it was quarter to seven. He tightened his arms around Natasha and felt her stir. "Shh," he whispered. He didn't have his hearing aids in, so he had no idea if anyone else was awake, but he didn't want to take any chances. 

She squirmed around in his arms to face him. _I don't hear anything._

 _Okay._ Clint relaxed a little, moving to give them a little more space between them. _Good morning._

 _Not yet._ Natasha's eyes were bright as she suppressed a smile, clearly enjoying the confusion that registered on Clint's face. Before he could ask, she took his face between her hands and kissed him softly, letting her forehead rest against his for a moment before pulling away again. _Now it is._

For a minute, Clint thought he was still asleep, still dreaming, because whoever this was, it wasn't Natasha. She wasn't... soft like this. Gentle. Sweet. She didn't smile like this, like everything was right in the world, like she was exactly where she wanted to be. 

Maybe he was just projecting. Maybe he was seeing what he wanted to see, putting the feelings he had on her. That's what his therapist would have said, probably, and even though most of it was bullshit, maybe for once she would have been right.

But the illusion that it was dream was shattered when he looked away from her face to her hands where they rested over his heart. The pale skin of her wrists was marred by bruises, like someone had grabbed them and squeezed, yanked, pinned... 

It must have shown on his face, because Natasha's peaceful expression disappeared, and she pulled her arms in against her chest like she could hide them, like she would make him unsee what was now indelibly inked in his mind. She sat up, trying to untangle herself from the blankets, to get away.

"Wait," Clint said, keeping his voice low, or at least he hoped he was. "'Tasha, wait."

If she said anything, he didn't hear it. His first urge was to reach out and physically stop her, but he realized that that would likely be the worst possible choice. So he did what he least wanted to. He got out of bed, pushing back the blankets so that she could get up. He wasn't going to trap her, to hold her where she didn't want to be. He could only hope that by showing that, she would decide that maybe she wanted to be here after all. That maybe here was safe.

 _Natasha._ Clint put himself in her line of sight as she looked around for where she'd dropped her clothes the night before. _Natasha, you don't have to go._ She looked at him and shook her head like what he'd said was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard. _You don't. We can keep you hidden a little while longer. It'll be okay._

 _I have to go home,_ she signed. 

_Why?_

_If I don't, I'll be in trouble._

_If you do?_ Unless she could manage to sneak in without anyone noticing that she'd been gone all night, she would most likely be in trouble anyway. And Clint had the feeling that her uncle kept pretty close tabs on her, and her disappearance was unlikely to have escaped his notice. 

She shrugged. 

Clint handed her her clothes and turned his back. A minute later, she yanked on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around. She hadn't gotten dressed, and now she looked furious. _Why?_ , she demanded. 

_Why what?_

She pointed to her right wrist, her forehead furrowed, her lips drawn into a frown. _Why aren't you asking?_

Why _wasn't_ he asking? It would make sense to ask, to demand to know what had happened. But it would only put her on the defensive, force her to try and cover for it, maybe, to lie to him about it and say it was nothing when clearly it was something. But was he letting her down by not asking? Was he acting like it didn't matter, like he didn't care? 

He knew what it was like to have secrets, to want to tell and to not have the words for it. He knew what it was like to carry around the weight of a life that would have been too heavy for someone twice their age. He wanted to help her carry hers, wanted her to know that she wasn't alone, but he wouldn't force anything. Whatever happened had to be her choice. 

_Everyone wants something from you,_ Clint replied finally. _But all I want is you. And sometimes I don't know when asking is right or when it'll send you running. And I don't want you to lie to me. Not ever. So... if you want to tell me, I want you to know I'll listen. Always. If you don't, okay. But I won't forget._

 _I don't know when asking is right either,_ Natasha admitted. She sat back down on his bed, folding her legs underneath her and pulling the blankets over her lap. 

Clint sat next to her and traced the tip of one finger over her wrist, not putting too much pressure. He didn't want to hurt her. _Who?_

Natasha looked down, her shoulders curving in.

_Your uncle?_

She shook her head.

_Someone at the party? Your family?_

_Not family._ She blinked hard. _Someone. Yes. I don't know._

_Why?_

She seemed to retreat into herself, her knees coming up and her arms pulling into her chest, ducking her chin like she needed to protect her vital organs. 

_Natasha, why?_

But it was one question too many, and the only answer he got was her shaking her head. He laid his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently, and she didn't pull away, so he moved closer, wrapping his arm around her and drawing her in slowly until he felt her relax, just a little, against him. 

"I'm here, Natasha," he whispered against her ear. "I'm not going anywhere. No matter what."

She looked at him and smiled sadly. _I wish I could believe you._

 _You don't need to believe me for it to be true._

Natasha swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. _Can I stay a little longer?_

It would make it harder getting her out of the house without anyone noticing, and he suspected that it would mean more trouble for her later when she finally did go home, but there was only one answer he could possibly give: _Of course. You don't even have to ask._


	14. Chapter 14

"Clinton! Telephone!"

Clint looked up and saw Mrs. Sullivan in his doorway, one hand on her hip, the other holding out the cordless phone. He hadn't heard her calling because he'd taken out his hearing aids, and now she was pissed. He was going to hear about it later, how he knows the rules, blah blah blah. But he'd been cooped up in the house with the kids for a week now, and he was starting to go insane. At least if he couldn't hear them he could pretend that they didn't exist. 

"Sorry," he said, hooking them behind his ears. "I forgot."

"Telephone," she repeated. 

"Thanks." He took the phone and put it to his ear. He had no idea who could possibly be calling him, since he didn't exactly have a vast group of friends, and anyone that he actually might want to talk to he would have given his cell phone number to. Who the hell would be calling him on the house phone? _He_ didn't even know the number without looking it up on his contact list. "Hello?"

"Hey, Barton. It's Tony Stark. How are you? How has your vacation been treating you? Good? Glad to hear it. I just wanted to give you a call and extend an invitation to you. Make you an offer you can't refuse kind of thing. What do you say?"

_I say you sound like you've been snorting Adderall._ But Clint couldn't say that, because Mrs. Sullivan was standing outside the door still, and he had no doubt she was listening, even though she was pretending to reorganize the linen closet or something. "How'd you get my number?"

"Oh, I just looked it up in the school directory," Tony said blithely. "I mean, sure, it's not actually _published_ but I've never really let that get in my way. But anyway, enough small talk. I'm throwing a party on new year's eve and you should come. Bring your girlfriend."

"I don't—" Clint stopped himself. It was true that he didn't have a girlfriend, not officially, but there was no reason to tell Tony that. Who knew what the kid might get it into his head to do if he knew that Natasha wasn't Clint's? He didn't figure Tony needed any encouragement in getting himself in trouble, and last time he'd got it into his head to get friendly with Natasha, it had ended in blood.

"I don't know if my parents will let me," he said lamely. He was pretty sure that Natasha's uncle wouldn't, and he had no way of asking her anyway. He hadn't seen or heard from her since he'd snuck her out of the house the day after Christmas.

"Let? Permission? You sound like Rogers! Come on, live a little. It'll be fun. Just an intimate gathering of a few close friends. Unless you'd rather hang out at home with the folks?" Clint made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a groan, and Tony laughed. "See? I thought not. You know where I live?"

Everyone knew where Tony lived. It was kind of hard to miss, considering the building said STARK on it in glowing letters.

"Yeah."

"Party starts at seven, ends whenever I get sick of you. Password is Jarvis."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Password?"

"To keep out the rabble. So I'll see you there? Awesome. Later!" Tony hung up, leaving Clint staring at phone, not quite sure what had just happened. 

He went out into the hall and handed the phone to Mrs. Sullivan. "Who was that?" she asked.

"A friend from school."

"What did he want?"

"He invited me to a party. A New Year's party, I guess. Can I go?" Not that he cared one way or another if she said yes or not; Tony was right about that. But it would make his life easier if he didn't have to sneak out. 

"Will his parents be there?"

"Of course," Clint said. "It's just going to be a few of us. Probably that group that Mr. Coulson started, maybe a couple of others. No big deal."

"I'm not sure that it's a good idea. I'll have to talk to Mr. Sullivan about it."

"Sure," he said. "I was just kinda looking forward to getting to spend some time with people my own age, having fun."

She sighed. "I know it's hard being the oldest one here," she said. "I do. We'll talk it over. I'm sure we can arrange something."

"Thanks." Clint forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine. He was sick of their fake understanding. They didn't understand him, and sometimes he was pretty sure that they regretted ever taking him in. He was going to the party, whether they liked it or not.

And, he decided, so was Natasha.

*

He waited in a little café across the street from the shop where Natasha worked, sitting at a table by the window and watching, hoping for a glimpse of her. But it was a man – not here uncle, he didn't think, although maybe a relative because he looked similar to the man he'd seen before – who locked the door and flipped the sign to closed.

He waited until the café closed, long after dark had fallen but long before the streets emptied, especially on New Year's Eve. He walked around the block once, then again, slowing as he passed the store, looking up, trying to figure out where exactly Natasha would be, if she was in there at all. All of the windows seemed dark except one, and all he could do was hope that it was hers. 

He edged his way down a narrow alley between the buildings and found a fire escape. It was rusted and looked none too safe, but he jumped up and grabbed the bottom rung of it anyway, hauling himself up and trying to be as quiet as possible as he ascended.

'Come to your window,' he texted when he got as close as he could manage.

Minutes passed. Five, then ten, and he wondered how long he would wait. Fifteen, and he really should climb down, go to the party or just go home. Twenty-four... twenty-five... If she didn't appear by the time he reached thirty, he would leave. 

"Are you insane?"

Clint looked up and grinned. He'd guessed right. Natasha's head and shoulders stuck out of the window as she looked down at him, the light from the room making a flaming halo of her hair. "Yes. Come on."

"I can't," she hissed. 

"Yes, you can. We have a party to go to."

"What party?" she asked.

"Stark's. He invited me, told me to invite you. So here I am, inviting you. Come on."

"I can't," Natasha repeated. "I'm sorry." Her head turned sharply like she'd heard something. "Go. Go." She disappeared, and the window closed behind her. 

Clint wanted to climb the wall, force open the window and follow her. Get to the bottom of the mystery that was Natalia Romanova once and for all. But he couldn't. For one, he would probably fall and kill himself. For two, she would never forgive him. For three, he might put himself, or her, or both, in danger, and even if he didn't care about his own hide, the memory of the bruises on her wrists was enough to stop him.

This time.

He climbed down the fire escape, breathing hoarsely around the lump in his throat. He made his way through the streets, finding his way to Stark Tower without too much trouble. He'd gotten permission to go to the party, and it would be more of a pain to explain to the Sullivans why he was home early than it would be to just make an appearance. 

He stepped into the lobby and a security guard or a doorman (probably both) looked up. "I'm, uh, here for the party?"

"Take the last elevator on the right, all the way to the top," the man said, sounding bored. 

"Thanks." Clint did as he was told, but when he poked the button, nothing happened. He poked it again, and again, and finally he pressed and held it. Maybe it was stuck or something. 

A cool British voice, sounding slightly exasperated, came through the intercom. "Password?"

"Uh, Jarvis?"

"Yes?"

Clint looked around, checking for hidden cameras or something. Was this Stark's idea of a joke? Was he watching him and laughing? "Stark, you ain't as funny as you think."

"He certainly is not. Would you care to join the party anyway?"

"Yeah."

The elevator door closed and it zoomed up to the top floor, opening into a marble foyer that was bigger than Clint's bedroom. The place was packed with kids, half of whom Clint had never seen before. He was pretty sure that they didn't go to his school. But everyone seemed to be having a good, if drunken, time. 

A drink didn't sound like such a bad idea. He found Tony behind the bar, grinning like a madman as he and Bruce mixed... well, they were either cocktails or explosions waiting to happen, and quite possibly both. Whatever they were, they went down smoother than Clint had expected, and after two, he could almost forget the ache that was the place at his side where Natasha wasn't.

Almost.

He was surprised to see that Steve Rogers was there, and Thor and Loki, and even Pepper, who looked as wound up as usual. He said hello to the people he knew, but mostly he kept to himself, trying to find a quiet corner and failing miserably. Another drink and everything seemed too loud, and finally he took out his hearing aids and let silence enfold him.

A big TV on the wall showed a countdown to the new year. Less than two minutes. He took his phone out of his pocket, thinking he could send Natasha a text, let her know she was thinking about him. It started buzzing in his hand.

'What's the password?'

Clint got up, shoving through the crowd and crashing into the elevator door as he stabbed at the button to take him down. "Hurry up, hurry up," he urged as they descended, and when the door opened, he almost collided with Natasha as she stepped in.

"You're here," he said. "You're here!"

Her mouth moved, but he couldn't hear her, and he couldn't remember which pocket he'd put his hearing aids in. She shook her head, smiling wryly. _I wanted to start the year the way I want it to continue,_ she signed. 

He pulled her into the elevator and told Jarvis to take them up. They reached the top as the last few seconds of 2012 ticked away, and as people yelled out, "Happy New Year!" Natasha wrapped her arms around Clint's waist and he buried his face in her hair. 

"'Tasha..."

She looked up at him and put a finger over his lips, shaking her head. _I need a drink._

_Okay._ He sighed as she let go of him and followed her through the crowd. 

"Hey!" Tony grinned when he saw them approaching. "Look who decided to join us! Did you get your new year's kiss?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Better," she said. "Now give me drink."

Tony looked back and forth between them, his eyes wide. "I thought a cigarette was traditional."

"What, you not read surgeon general warning? Smoking, it give you cancer. Thank you," she said as Bruce handed her a drink. "At least someone here is gentleman." She turned her back on them, and winked when Clint caught her eye.

"Let them think what they want," she said. "They do already. We know truth."

Clint wasn't actually sure he did, but that was a conversation for another time, probably. For now, he was just going to be happy to have her here, safe, for as long as he could keep her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late, but hopefully worth it! I figured it would be all right, since it's a New Year's Eve party. ;-)
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone!


	15. Chapter 15

"This is not happening. This is _so_ not happening. When I open my eyes, I will wake up and discover that this has all just been a very, very bad dream." Pepper's eyes were shut so tight it looked painful. After a few seconds (and a couple of deep breaths that made her shoulders rise and fall so much Clint could see them from halfway across the auditorium) she opened them and tugged on the auditorium door again.

It didn't budge.

The sound she made wasn't quite human. It drew Tony out of the lighting booth and Steve and Bruce from out of the wings. Natasha's head popped up from where she'd been sitting on the floor with a pile of dresses that needed hemming to see what was going on.

"What's going on?" Tony asked. "Everything all right?" 

"No, everything is _not_ all right, and if you come one step closer, I will make sure that you regret it for the rest of your natural life, which will be very, very short." 

Tony held up his hands and didn't move. "What about my unnatural life? Because I'm fairly sure that with a little time, I could totally turn myself into an AI or something and install myself on your phone. Need a little more Stark in your life? There's an app for that."

Clint smirked, but Pepper didn't seem to find it funny. Which was probably the point, unless Tony had actually been trying to make her laugh, but if he was, then maybe he wasn't as smart as Clint had thought. 

"We are _stuck_ in the auditorium. Locked in. Cannot get out," Pepper said, whirling around to glare at the rest of them as if it was somehow their fault.

"Don't you have a key?" Steve asked. 

"No, I do not have a key. Apparently in the past there was an... incident... and now students aren't allowed to have the keys to the auditorium at any time, under any circumstances," Pepper snapped. 

"How can all of the doors lock from the inside?" Bruce asked. "That has to be against fire code or something."

"I guess we can ask the fire marshal when he shows up, because he's going to have to to get us out of here. Mr. Fielder went home early, said he wasn't feeling well but I think he just got a headache from all of the _bickering_ ," she turned her steely gaze on Loki and Thor. Only Thor looked even vaguely apologetic. " _He_ was the one who was responsible for making sure everything was locked at the end of the night, so he locked all of the doors except the one, which was propped open until _someone_ pulled out the doorstop."

"How was I supposed to know?" Tony asked. "It was interfering with my ability to check the lights, having it coming in from the hall. No one told _me_ why the door was propped open!"

"I knew it!" Pepper screeched. "I knew it was you!" She threw up her hands in disgust. "God, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me!"

"If _this_ is the worst thing that's ever happened to you, then you're pretty damn lucky," Tony said, for once all teasing and sarcasm absent from his tone. This wasn't a joke anymore, and it was as if a chill descended over the entire room, and everyone moved – consciously or unconsciously – closer together, gravitating towards those who gave them some degree of comfort or safety.

"Oh yeah?" Pepper demanded, rounding on him again. "Because you've had it so hard? You're a genius. You never have to study for anything. It all just comes naturally to you. And you have all the money in the world. If you need something, it's just given to you. What have you ever had to deal with? You strut around like you own the place, and for all I know, you do!"

"It's a public school," Tony pointed out. "No one owns it."

"Why are you even _here_ , anyway?" Pepper asked. "You could go to a private school, not be mixed up with all the rabble here. But I guess you like having people fawn over you, like your rich can rub off on them or something. It's not like it's even money that you did anything for. The only thing you're good at is showing off by tossing around Daddy's money!"

"You just said I was a genius. You just said that everything comes naturally to me. I'm good at everything, Pepper, according to you, or at least that was the implication. So make up your mind." His tone was cold. 

Clint made his way slowly down the aisle to where Natasha was setting and began sifting through the sewing kit by her knee. She looked at him curiously, and he signed quickly, _I'm getting us out._

Pepper stood there, scowling, obviously trying to figure out how to respond, how to get herself out of the hole she had dug. Sometimes she was the picture of grace under pressure, but Tony obviously had a way of pressing her buttons, and now she'd lost it and it wasn't coming back.

Help came from an unlikely quarter. It was Loki who spoke up. "If your life is so hard, then why don't you tell us all about it, Stark? Why don't you tell us about the worst moment in your life? Then maybe you can throw yourself a pity party, complete with a DJ and an open bar."

"Not that it's any of your business," Tony said, "but if you must know, the worst moment of my life was when I found out that my mother was dying. She wasn't even dead yet, but all of the best doctors in the world, the best that money could buy, had given up and decided there was no saving her, and it didn't matter then how smart or rich I was, or my father was, because it couldn't stop her from dying."

The silence in the room was profound. Pepper stood with her jaw hanging open, one hand out like she had had the urge to reach out and touch him, maybe, but then she'd forgotten or thought better of it, but her hand stayed out there, just hanging in the air.

"But let me guess," Tony said. "That can't _possibly_ compare to the pain of finding out that you're adopted. That your parents aren't _really_ your parents, and your whole life, your whole existence, is a _lie_. Am I right? Is that where you were going with that, Loki? Because at least you've got parents. Two of them, even, who for some crazy reason seem to be willing to put up with your bullshit. Just get over it already, who don't you? Because eventually everyone's going to get sick of listening to you whine about it."

"You leave my brother alone," Thor said, dropping off the front of the stage and closing the distance between himself and Tony. "You have no idea what it's like for him. No, he doesn't know what it's like for you, but who are you to say whose pain is worse? Death isn't the only thing that can tear a family apart, you know. They don't have to die for you to feel the loss of them."

"Oh, here we go. The trials and tribulations of being the school golden boy," Tony sneered. "Truth or truth, Thor?"

"What?"

"Truth or truth. It's like truth or dare, except with no way to squirm out of answering the question."

"What question?"

"Worst moment of your life."

Thor looked back at his brother, and then down at the floor. He seemed to deflate, like someone had sucked all the bravado out of him and left him a mere mortal. "When we found out Loki was adopted. When he decided he wasn't my brother anymore."

"Can everyone just stop picking on each other?" Steve asked, wheezing slightly from the short jog up the theater aisle. "Really, guys. We all have moments in our lives that, no matter how much time passes and how much we wish we could change them, they will always haunt us. Do we really need to drag them up for some twisted game?"

"What's yours?" Tony asked. "As long as we're trapped in the plot of a teen movie, why don't we live it up? Go all Breakfast Club or Real World or whatever. Come on, Steve. Show and tell."

"Same as yours," Steve said. "When I found out my mom is dying. It used to be when my dad died, but at least I still had her, but now..." He shrugged.

"How is she?" Bruce asked. "You said before Christmas..."

"She's hanging in there," Steve said. "She swears she's going to make it to my graduation, but the doctor's aren't optimistic. Maybe she will, though. She's a fighter." He forced a smile. 

"She will," Bruce said, but of course he couldn't promise that. 

"Thanks," Steve said. 

"Mine was—" Bruce started, but Tony interrupted him. 

"You don't have to," Tony said. "Steve's right. We shouldn't be doing this."

"Oh no," Loki said. "No, if you're going to draw blood, then we're all bleeding together. Share and share alike, or did you miss that lesson in kindergarten?"

"I was never very good at sharing," Tony said. "Shouldn't someone call somebody? Mr. Fielder or Principal Fury or 911 or something?"

"I don't mind," Bruce said softly. "It'll come out eventually anyway." He leaned against one of the seats, sitting on its back. "Last year I... a kid at my old school said something about my mom and I just lost it. I don't even remember what happened. It was like I just blacked out, and when I came back to myself, there was blood everywhere and they had to take him away and he was in the ICU for three days. They weren't sure he was going to make it. His parents wanted me sent to jail, but I spent the rest of the year in psychiatric lock-up, pretty much, working through my anger management issues. And then I switched schools."

They all looked at each other, and Clint knew that it was only a matter of time before they turned their attention to him and Natasha. She was sitting at his side as he worked with a big sewing needle and some kind of little metal hook that he wasn't quite sure the use of in sewing, but it made a serviceable lock-pick, leaning against his leg. He could feel her shaking. 

"Just another minute," he whispered. "Just keep your head down."

But they didn't have a minute. "Hey!" Tony said. "What are you doing?"

"Getting us out of here," Clint replied. "Hold on."

"You can pick locks?"

"I can do a lot of things," Clint said. "Happens when you grow up in the circus." 

Tony laughed, then stopped when he realized Clint wasn't even smiling. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? I was raised in the circus. You might even be able to find video on YouTube. Look for the Incredible Hawkeye or something. All one word. H-A-W-K-E-Y-E."

"So what's your worst moment, Hawkeye?" Tony asked. 

"Waking up deaf," Clint said. "Waking up and finding out that my parents were dead, my brother had disappeared with the rest of the circus, and I couldn't hear a damned thing. Some of it came back, but that's why I have the hearing aids, and why I'm in foster care, and why sometimes I don't know basic things that most kids learned in, like, first grade. Because I never went to school before this year. But I can tell you all about how much shit an elephant produces in a day." 

He felt the tumblers of the lock click into place, and he pushed on it. It swung open and light from the hallway poured in. "Voila. Freedom."

"You're my hero!" Pepper said, and Clint had to dodge to avoid being engulfed in a hug. She propped the door open again, and began chivvying everyone back to the tasks they'd been finishing up when they'd gotten locked in in the first place. 

_Thank you,_ Natasha signed when the others had disappeared from their immediate vicinity.

_For what?_

_Getting us out._

Clint knew that it was more than that, or he suspected it was. He guessed that she was really thanking him for saving her from having do dig up her deepest, darkest demon for all to see. _What are friends for?_

_Is what you said true?_

He thought about it, then shrugged. _Yes. True enough, I guess. It didn't turn out as bad as I thought, though._ He followed her back to her pile of sewing and helped her put it away. _If it wasn't for that, I wouldn't have met you._

She nodded, but she wouldn't look at him directly.

"'Tasha," he whispered, touching her arm so that she looked up. _Would you tell me? If I asked?_

She swallowed hard, then nodded. _If you asked._

He didn't.


	16. Chapter 16

"What time is it?" Natasha asked, wiping her cheek with the back of her wrist and smearing paint across it.

Clint pulled out his phone to look. "1:36," he said. Rehearsal had run late without anyone noticing, apparently. He glanced over at Natasha and saw that she'd gone pale. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go," she said. "Is late."

"Okay," he said. "You want me to walk with you?"

She shook her head. "Tell Steve sorry I not stay."

"I will."

She went to grab her coat, but it was too late. A man came storming into the school. "Natalia!" he growled. It took Clint a minute to recognize him, but as soon as he saw the scar on his face he knew that it was her uncle, and he looked ready to kill. Clint stood up slowly, ready to step in if necessary. 

"Sorry," she said, slipping her arms into her sleeves. "Sorry. I lose track of time."

Her uncle grabbed her by the arm, and Clint saw her wince. He was saying something in Russian, and Natasha was nodding and saying something back, the same thing over and over and Clint could only guess that it must be an apology. 

He didn't want to let her go, but he stood frozen in place. _Don't get involved,_ all of the voices from his past told him. But she was his friend, and she was being hurt, and how could he just stand there and let it happen? But she had also been furious at him the last time he'd stepped in on her behalf, telling him that she could fight her own battles and she didn't need him. 

This was different, though, wasn't it? That was just Tony. This was a man that scared her, and had power over her that Tony never would. This was a man who looked like he'd been in plenty of fights in the past and wouldn't hesitate to engage in one more, even with a teenage girl. 

He was failing her, not doing anything. He was sure of it. "Natalia!"

She turned and looked, and her eyes were pleading, but he didn't know for what. Her uncle stopped and looked back at him, and his already dark expression became even more murderous. He looked at Natasha and growled something at her, and she shook her head, and now she was the one dragging him out and away, leaving Clint behind.

"Who was that?" Steve asked, coming up behind him. 

"Her uncle," Clint said. "He came to pick her up."

"He looked pretty angry."

"He..." Clint forced himself to shake off what he'd just seen, to look up at Steve and act like it wasn't a big deal. "She was supposed to be home by one. She helps out in the shop and I guess the other person who was supposed to be working called in sick, and then he had to take the time out to come get her when she was supposed to walk home, so yeah, he was kind of pissed."

"She looked scared," Steve said. "Is she... is she going to be all right?"

"She'll be fine," Clint said, hoping that it was true. "He was just angry. Once he's done yelling everything will go back to normal." The trouble was, what passed for normal for Natasha wasn't anything like what most people thought of, and the longer he knew her and the more he saw, the worse what she accepted as 'just the way things are' became.

"You sure?" Steve said. "Maybe we should—"

"Maybe you should mind your own business," Clint said, then realized that snapping wasn't going to help anything. "If we – she – needs any help, you'll be the first to know."

Steve didn't look convinced, but with nothing more than some raised voices in a language he didn't understand to go on, there wasn't much he could do.

*

That night, Clint couldn't sleep. He'd thought about texting Natasha a thousand times, but he'd never done it, for fear that it would make things worse. The last thing he wanted was to get her in more trouble. But he lay awake and hoped that she would send him a message, let him know that things were all right... or better yet, that she would show up and he could see for himself that they were.

He'd finally dozed off sometime after 2:00 am when his phone buzzed in his hand. He blinked at the screen, waiting for the letters to come into focus. It was Natasha, of course, because who else would send him a message at this hour? 'Tell me something.'

He frowned, confused. 'Tell you what?'

'Something. Anything.'

 _Anything?_ What was she looking for? What did she need from him? The request didn't make any sense. In that moment, there was only thing that Clint really wanted to tell her, only a few words that he really wanted to say, but this wasn't the time or the place. This wasn't how it should be, and he was sure that it wasn't what she was looking for.

'I miss the circus sometimes,' he sent finally. 'I miss the rush of shooting for a crowd, of having people watch me and think I'm something.'

'You are something,' she sent back a second later. 'You are to me.'

'I wish you were here,' he sent, then wished he could take it back. His heart pounded as he waited for a response that he was sure wouldn't come. 

But it did, a few very long minutes later. 'I wish I was too.' 

'Can I see you tomorrow?'

This time the wait was even longer, and finally he sent another text. 'Sorry. Never mind.'

'Come see me in morning at café. Early. They open at 7.'

'I'll be there.' He hesitated, then sent, 'Stay safe, Tasha.'

There was no response.

*

In the morning he got up early. Mrs. Sullivan was up making breakfast for everyone before church. She seemed startled to see him up at that hour when there was no school. "School project," he explained. "We have to meet early."

"Do you want some breakfast?" she asked. 

"We're meeting at a café. Thanks." He grabbed his coat and headed for the door, cutting her off before she could ask any more questions. He walked quickly through the streets, his breath steaming in the cold air, his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. When he arrived the place was just opening, and Natasha wasn't there yet. 

He got them both coffee and sat down at a table by the window, watching for a flash of her hair, for any sign of her at all. What if her uncle noticed her leaving and didn't let her out? How long should he wait? But his coffee had only just cooled to a reasonable drinking temperature when he saw her coming across the street.

 _Thank you,_ she signed as she sat down, wrapping her hands around the mug. 

_You're welcome._ He searched her face for any signs of what had gone down the day before, after she'd been dragged from the school. He didn't see any marks, but then her uncle would probably be careful not to leave any where anyone could see them. _I'm sorry if I got you in trouble yesterday._

She smiled, but it was half-hearted at best. Mostly, she just looked tired and a little sad. _You didn't,_ she said. _Thank you for not... getting involved._

 _I wanted to,_ he said. _He was hurting you._

She shook her head, fear flickering in her eyes for just a second. _You can't. Not ever._

_But—_

_No. No, Clint. He's not safe, but I can handle him. I don't want you to get hurt._

_Well I don't want **you** to get hurt either!_ He almost knocked over his coffee as his signing got broader, less controlled. 

_I can handle him,_ she repeated. _Please. If you start trouble with him..._ But she didn't finish the sentence. She didn't really need to, because for once she didn't try to hide anything, and it was written all over her face.

If Clint started trouble, her uncle might hurt him.

If Clint started trouble with her uncle, he might hurt _her_.

If he started trouble, there would be consequences, and he might not be the one paying them, and that wasn't something he could risk. 

_I want you to be safe,_ he signed.

She held out her hand, palm down, the middle three fingers folded in but pinkie and thumb extended, moving it first towards him and then towards herself. The sign for 'same'. She wanted him safe too. And if he wasn't, if he was on her uncle's radar, then it might take away the only safe haven that she had. 

She didn't just want him to be safe. She _needed_ him to be safe, for himself and for her. 

And it sucked and it hurt and he hated it, that he knew that things were so completely fucked up in her life that she couldn't even find the words for it, or that she felt she had to protect him from it, and there was nothing that he could do but stay out of it so that when she needed to escape it, she had somewhere to go. 

Was that really what it meant to be a friend? 

They sat in silence, finishing their coffee and sharing a pastry, and finally Natasha stood up. _I have to go._

 _You know where I am if you need me,_ Clint replied. 

She looked away, ducking her head, and then nodded. She hugged him, quick and hard so that he barely had a chance to react before she was gone.

He waited until she was across the street and safe inside before leaving, just in case anyone was watching. Then he headed to the archery range because he wasn't ready to go home yet, and he imagined the target was Natasha's uncle, and every shot hit its mark.


	17. Chapter 17

'It's okay.'

The text came in while Clint was in the shower. He stared at his phone's screen, trying to figure out what Natasha meant by it. _What_ was okay? There was a difference between 'it's' and 'I'm' and even though some might have assumed she'd just slipped in her use of English, Clint knew better. If she'd meant to say 'I'm' she would have.

'What's okay?' he sent back, tugging on his jeans and rummaging around under his bed for his shoes. 

She didn't answer, and he almost forgot his lunch in his hurry to get out the door and to school to see her. But the message soon became clear, or at least clearer, because she didn't show up. She'd been warning him, in her own cryptic way. Even though she wasn't there, it was okay.

He told himself it meant she was safe, or as safe as she ever was. If she was in trouble – real, immediate, life-threatening trouble – she would tell him. Wouldn't she? She certainly wouldn't send him a message saying that it was okay. 

Right?

He spent the entire day on edge, barely hearing anything that was said in any of his classes. He was tempted to take out his hearing aids and just stop listening completely, but that would very likely have landed him in Principal Fury's office, or at the very least Mr. Coulson's, and he really wasn't in the mood. 

When the bell rang at the end of his last class, signaling the start of the period where he and Natasha had independent study time, he was out of his seat and out the door, headed toward the shop where Natasha worked before he even thought about it. But yesterday – was it only yesterday? – she'd told him to stay away, for both of their sakes. Which meant, as much as he wanted to reassure himself that she – not just some nebulous 'it' – was okay, he couldn't.

He turned around and went home, and shut himself in his room because he knew if he had to deal with the younger kids he would end up in a shouting match, and the last thing he needed was to end up grounded or some other bullshit. Dinner was excruciating, and when they asked him how his day was he made up some lie about how he'd had a math quiz and he was pretty sure he'd done okay. They let it go, maybe even bought it, and he hoped he would remember the lie later when they inevitably asked how he did.

The next morning he got another text, the same two words: 'It's okay.' And then again on Wednesday, but still she wasn't at school. Mr. Coulson had scheduled a meeting for their group for just after lunch, and he considered skipping it but again, it wasn't worth the trouble it would cause. 

"Where's Natalia?" Steve asked when Mr. Coulson shut the door. He was looking at Clint, because of course everyone expected him to know.

"Home sick," Clint lied. "The flu." He'd have to tell her, so when she came back she would know she was supposed to be recovering. 

"That's too bad," Steve said. "When you talk to her, tell her that I hope she feels better soon."

It was the 'when' that brought a lump to Clint's throat so big he could barely swallow, and he certainly couldn't talk. He just nodded, forcing a smile that he wasn't sure actually made it all the way to his lips. Because it wasn't when he talked to her, it was _if_ he talked to her. He knew better than to call. A text was easier to ignore, easier to hide. 

Steve kept looking over at him, though, like he wanted to say something or like he was trying to read his mind. Clint didn't need to be a mind-reader to know what he was thinking. He was thinking about Saturday, about Natasha's uncle and the altercation they'd both seen. He was thinking that maybe something had happened to her, something bad, and she wasn't sick at all. 

Clint knew he was thinking it, because it was what he was thinking, too. 

The not knowing was killing him. 

At the end of the session, Mr. Coulson asked him to stay behind. "I gotta get to class," Clint said. 

"I'll write you a pass. Have you talked to Natalia recently?"

"I haven't talked to her, but she sent me a text this morning," Clint said. "Why?"

"You would tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you?" Mr. Coulson asked. "Lying doesn't help either one of you."

"I ain't lying," Clint said. "She sent me a text that said she's okay." Sort of. "It's flu season. It happens. Guess we should listen when they tell us to get the flu shot." He forced himself to make it sound like a joke, like it was no big deal. 

"Mr. Barton, if you're hiding something, you're not protecting her by doing so."

"I saw her Sunday and she was fine. Then she got sick. That's all." The bell rang and Clint crossed his arms. "Can I go?"

"If you know anything, or even if you _think_ you—" Mr. Coulson started.

"Why would I know anything?" Clint asked. 

"Because you're her friend. Because you care about her. Because she trusts you."

 _Which is exactly why I can't tell you anything. Because she's my friend. Because I care about her. Because she trusts me._ He had to protect Natasha, and protecting someone didn't mean getting the authorities involved, which is exactly what would happen if he said anything to Mr. Coulson. 

"She's sick, that's all. Can I have my pass now?"

Mr. Coulson looked at him, like he could see through his skull and into his head to find out whether he was lying and why. He finally sighed and wrote out the pass, handing it to Clint. "You know where to find me if you need to talk," he said.

"Yeah. Right." Clint went to class, where he didn't learn a damned thing.

*

Thursday morning there was no text, and no Natasha. The same on Friday. Saturday he spent the morning at the school, helping with the play, and the afternoon shooting one arrow after another into a target. Anything to keep his mind off of his friend and the fact that he had no idea if she was still all right or if something terrible had happened to her.

By Saturday night, he couldn't take it anymore. He waited until everyone was asleep, then snuck out, making his way through the streets to where Natasha lived. They'd had an unexpected thaw and the night was warm. Most of the snow had melted, leaving puddles on the sidewalks. He looked up at the window that he knew was hers, and saw there was a light on. 

He reached for his phone, but stopped when she saw a silhouette against the window that was most certainly not hers, and then one that was. He could hear voices, hers and a man's, but they were speaking Russian so he didn't understand. The man moved closer to Natasha and she took a step back, but he grabbed her so she couldn't pull away. And then he didn't know what he was seeing, only that he didn't want to see it.

But he couldn't move. He couldn't look away. Even when they moved out of view, he stayed frozen in place, staring up at the window as waves of nausea rolled through him. He wasn't sure how long it lasted – too long, way too long – before she appeared at the window again, pushing it open and leaning out, lighting a cigarette.

And it was so cliché that it left no doubt in his mind what had happened, what he had just seen happen, and he lost the contents of his stomach there on the pavement. The noise of it made her look down, and the cigarette slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the ground, extinguishing itself in a puddle.

"Wait," she said. "Wait."

But he didn't wait. He turned and he ran. He could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket but he ignored it. He ignored _her_.

He didn't stop running until he was a block from his house. He snuck back in and curled up in bed fully clothed. Then, only then, did he check his phone. Five missed calls, and then finally a text.

'I told you to stay away.'

This time, he was the one who didn't answer.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to be kind to my readers (if not my characters) and do a bonus post this week, so as not to leave you all hanging for quite as long.

By the time he got to school on Monday morning, he was under strict orders to come straight home after, because he had an appointment with his therapist. He'd gotten into a screaming match with one of the younger kids when he'd barged into Clint's room that ended with him physically tossing him out. Of course the brat had gone and tattled because he'd gotten a little bruise on his elbow, and when Mr. Sullivan had come to confront him about it, he'd told him to go fuck himself. So now he was grounded and had extra chores and every other damn thing they could think of to punish him.

He didn't give a shit about any of it.

He didn't give a shit about anything. _Especially_ not a certain Russian redhead who'd torn out his heart and stomped on it. He'd thought... But it didn't matter what he'd thought, because what he'd thought turned out to be a bunch of bullshit.

That's what he kept telling himself. Except the minute he saw her, the minute she looked him in the eye and looked away like she was ashamed, he couldn't hold on to it. He couldn't just stop caring about her. It wasn't that simple, even when he had no idea what was going on with her, or them. He approached her slowly, like she was a wild animal who might flee if he got too close too fast. "Nata—"

"I _told_ you to stay away," she said. "Why you did not listen?"

"I needed—"

"So what? I should care what you need? I ask you _one_ thing!" There was a catch in her voice, a hitch in her breath that betrayed her anger, that made Clint want to take her away from here, to find somewhere quiet, to make her talk for once, because enough was enough. There was something going on, something bad, maybe worse than he'd ever thought, and he had to _do_ something. 

"It had been a week! I hadn't heard from you in days! What was I supposed to do?"

"Stay away like I ask!" Natasha snapped, loud enough to draw attention. "Not everything is about you, Clint Barton!"

Clint took a step back, walked away before he could say anything they would both regret. Now wasn't the time or the place to have this out. Maybe there never would be a time and place, and maybe this was the end, but he didn't want to believe that. He couldn't believe that.

He'd been patient. He hadn't demanded any answers from her about anything, and maybe he should have. Maybe it was his own fault for not asking the right questions, for letting her have everything on her own terms. 

Every time he saw her, it was like a fresh wound opened, and he was bleeding out all over the place and it seemed impossible that no one else could see it. He saw Steve go up to her, ask her how she was feeling, but he didn't hear her answer. He saw Bruce smile at her, and even Tony waved from a safe distance. But she didn't look at Clint, and he stayed away from her. 

"What happened?" Loki asked, sidling up next to him. "Did you and your girlfriend have a fight?" 

Clint didn't think. He just charged, knocking Loki to the ground and slamming his fist into his face, once, then again. He lost track of everything else until he found himself dumped in a chair in Principal Fury's office, blood on his knuckles, with Thor glaring down at him. 

"You can go, Mr. Odinson," Assistant Principal Hill said. "Thank you."

Thor nodded to her, even managed to smile, and did as he was told, ever the obedient puppy. A golden retriever, maybe. Clint figured Thor must have pulled him off his brother, and now that his mind was clearing a little, he hoped that Loki wasn't hurt _too_ badly. Even if the little shit had deserved it. 

Principal Fury called him in, and Clint got up, going into the office and flopping down in a chair. "Are you gonna call the Sullivans?" he asked.

"Yes," Principal Fury said. "You're lucky that Thor got to you as quickly as he did. Loki should be fine, if a little bruised. You, on the other hand, are suspended. Three days."

"Okay," Clint said. "Whatever."

"That's all you have to say for yourself? 'Whatever'?" The principal leaned over his desk, glowering at Clint with his one good eye. 

"Pretty much. Call 'em. I don't want to be here anyway." He crossed his arms and waited, not saying another word. He would be forced to talk at therapy, he was sure, but until then, he had nothing to say. Hell, even then he wouldn't have anything to say, but he had a few hours to figure out what lie to tell.

Mrs. Sullivan arrived, looking angrier than he'd ever seen her, especially after she'd talked to Principal Fury. "Let's go," she said. 

"I need to get my books," he replied. "So I can keep up on my schoolwork." 

He was right, and she knew it, and it only annoyed her more. "Fine. Let's go."

"I can go by myself," he said. "I'll be right back."

"If you do _anything_..."

"I _won't_. Jesus." Clint shoved through the office door and went to his locker. He knew that he was being followed by Hill, but he didn't care. He wasn't planning on doing anything other than exactly what he'd said.

Except Natasha was at his locker, waiting for him, her arms crossed. "I tell you, I not need you to fight my battles," she snapped.

"It wasn't your battle, it was mine." He opened his locker and began dumping books into his bag. When he was done he yanked the zipper shut. "Not everything is about you, Natalia Romanova." 

He hated to admit it, but it felt good to be the one walking away from her for once.

*

By the time he got the end of the second day of suspension, though, he was bored out of his mind, and felt stupid for having gotten himself into this mess in the first place. Mrs. Sullivan was constantly breathing down his neck, and he had to bite his tongue and play nice or he'd never be let out of the house again.

And he missed Natasha. Now that the initial shock was gone, now that he'd gotten past the anger, he wished that he'd waited. She'd asked him to wait, and why hadn't he? Maybe he hadn't actually seen what he thought he did. Maybe...

Maybe there was some explanation for all of it, tangled up in all of the things she didn't say to him. Maybe there was some explanation for the fear in her eyes, and her coming to find him at all odd hours of the night. Maybe there wasn't, but he had to know.

He couldn't go back to her house, though. She'd told him to stay away. She'd been trying to protect him, just like he tried to protect her. And she wasn't coming to find him. But there was one other possibility, one other place he might find her. 

He walked to the cemetery, glad of the moonlight that reflected off a fresh snowfall. The temperature had dropped again, and he had to be careful of patches of ice that had formed on the sidewalks. He ducked between the bars and scanned the ground, finding a set of footprints that led toward the shed. They were the right size to be Natasha's, but there was no way of knowing how recent they were.

But god or fate or something was smiling on him, because as he got closer he could see the faint light of a fire inside. He knocked on the door. "It's me," he called softly. "It's just me."

Natasha was sitting on the ground, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, rocking back and forth. She didn't even look at him as he came in. 

"Natasha?"

She wasn't wearing any gloves, or even a jacket. When he got close enough, he could see she was shivering. He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her, then grabbed two blankets and put one around her and one around himself, sitting next to her. "Natasha, what happened? What happened that night? I saw you—"

"You saw nothing," she said, her voice rough. "You saw... you know nothing of what you saw."

"I know," he said, because he had to believe that it had been anything other than what it had looked like. "I know. So tell me."

"No." She shook her head, buried her face against her knees. "No, Clint."

"Natasha, I can't understand you if I can't see your face," he said. "Or if you don't sign."

But she didn't move, and as far as Clint could tell, she didn't say anything. He sighed and shifted closer, reaching out to put his arm around her because she was still shaking, and whatever was going on with her, whatever was happening in her life and in her head right now, she didn't need to be alone with it.

As soon as he touched her, she jerked away like she'd been burned. "Don't," she said. "Don't touch me."

Clint held up his hands, then closed one into a fist and placed it over his heart, moving it in a small circle. _Sorry._

"Stop!" Her voice cracked, and she swiped at her face furiously. "Stop it!" She shrugged off the coat and blanket and stood up, kicking dirt at the fire. Clint barely had time to scramble to his feet as she dashed a bucket of water in his direction to douse the flames. 

She almost managed to disappear in the steam and smoke that resulted. Almost, but not quite. This time Clint caught her, and even when she struggled he didn't let go. "You stop!" He got a grip on both of her arms and shook her. "You're not running away this time. For once, I'm not letting you run away!"

She got her hands up between them and he felt her nails rake his face, but he didn't let go. He knew that if he did, it was over. She would disappear, and even if he saw her again, she wouldn't be herself. She wouldn't be the girl he knew, his friend, his best friend, his Natasha. 

Maybe she wouldn't be anything at all, because this was all getting to be too heavy, too hard. He could see it in the wild look in her eyes, in the panic that rose up and made her lash out, made her fight him so hard he wasn't sure she didn't actually want to hurt him. 

He held her tight, getting his arms around her to pin hers to her sides, crushing her against his chest and hating himself for it, hating that he was holding her against her will, trying to control her when that wasn't ever what he'd wanted to do. 

He was bigger than her, and stronger than her, and it wasn't fair. He was becoming one of the monsters that he so desperately wanted to protect her from, but he didn't know what else to do. 

How did you keep someone safe when the person they needed to be saved from was themself? 

Slowly, she stopped struggling. Slowly, she went quiet and still, although he could feel her panting breath against his neck. Slowly... so slowly... her arms came up and wrapped around him, and then he was holding her up as her knees sagged. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Natasha." He sank to the ground and held her there, and she didn't look at him, but she didn't try to get away, either, and he didn't know if he'd broken her or if she was just exhausted. 

He needed her to tell him, but she didn't say a word.


	19. Chapter 19

"I'm cold," Natasha whispered. 

Clint tightened his arms around her and reached for his coat, but that wasn't going to help, not enough. "Come on," he said. He forced himself up, his entire body aching with the tension and the cold, and held out his hands to her.

She hesitated, just for a second, then allowed him to pull her up. He was careful not to hold on any longer than he needed to, and he wrapped his coat around her. She stuck her arms through the sleeves and fumbled at the zipper but couldn't seem to coordinate her fingers.

"I got it," he said, and zipped her up. He started to walk, not knowing if she would follow, but hoping that she would. He had no idea what he was going to do once he got her home – his home, not hers – but right now just getting there seemed like a task tantamount to scaling Everest. 

She fell into step beside him and he felt her fingers wrap around his. He tucked them both into the pocket of his hoodie and kept walking. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't want to—"

"Don't. Please."

So he didn't, or he tried not to. They walked in silence, side by side, and it almost felt like before, almost felt like everything was okay, but it wasn't. Not really. 

How they made it up the stairs without getting heard he wasn't sure, because they were both stumbling, too cold to be coordinated. "You need to take a shower," he whispered. "You need to get warm."

"We'll get caught."

"I'll... tell them something. Just go."

He went to his room and got pajamas, and heard the water come on. Sure enough, a second later Mr. Sullivan's head popped out. "What are you doing?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper, obviously still half asleep.

"I don't feel good," Clint said. "I can't sleep. I thought a shower might help. I'm sorry. I'll be quiet."

Mr. Sullivan's eyes narrowed, but he must have decided it wasn't worth the fight, because all he said was, "Don't wake everyone up," and went back into his room. 

Clint eased open the bathroom door and shoved the clothing through. "I'll be right outside." He could barely keep himself upright against the doorframe, and he wished he could shower too, but that wasn't likely. 

Except apparently Natasha had the same thought, because she poked her head out a little while later and said, "I left on for you."

"I..."

"You're cold too," she said. "I don't look."

"I'm not—"

"I don't look," she insisted, and shut her eyes as if to prove her point. 

"You better not," he said, and he thought that he saw the tiniest flicker of a smile as he stepped in and closed the door. He waited until her eyes were covered and her back was turned before stripping down, getting into the shower quickly and hoping she was as good as her word.

By the time he got out, the water was starting to run cold. He toweled off quickly and dragged on pajamas, then hustled Natasha down the hall to his room, shutting and blocking the door. At least he didn't have to worry about getting woken up for the school in the morning; he was still suspended. And maybe Mr. Sullivan would tell Mrs. Sullivan that he was sick and she would just let him sleep in.

He could hope, anyway.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he said, and she didn't argue. He had enough blankets to make himself a decent place to sleep, but even though he was bone-deep exhausted, he lay awake listening to her breathe, waiting for it to slow down, even out, but it didn't happen. 

He heard her move, and then she was crawling under the blankets with him, tucking herself against his side, shaking like she had been before.

"Are you cold?" Had she gotten hypothermia or something? Was the shower and blankets not enough? Did she need a doctor? She didn't _feel_ cold...

She shook her head. "I just..."

But his hearing aids weren't in. He tapped her shoulder to make her look. _Sign, please._

She frowned and sat up, twisting the fingers of one hand with the other before finally shaping the words, _Come to bed. Please._

The look on her face said she knew she shouldn't ask. She knew that he could say no, probably would say no. What he'd seen... but she still hadn't explained that, had she? Was it enough to take her word for it, that it hadn't been what it looked like? But she hadn't said that either. 

It all twisted up in his gut and there was a part of him that wanted to say no, just to hurt her, just to get her back for... for what? And what good would it do? It might make him feel better for a second, but what about the second after that? What about all of the minutes and hours and days to follow?

He picked up the blankets and spread them back on the bed. She crawled in and turned her back, and when he lay down beside her, he didn't make any move to touch her more than was necessary. He didn't know what she wanted, and he honestly wasn't sure how much more he had to give right now. But apparently just having him there was enough, because her breathing slowed and within a few minutes she was asleep.

But neither of them slept peaceful, and it was a clash of elbows and knees and a tangle of blankets until finally they were startled awake in the morning by a knock at the door. Of course Clint didn't hear it, but Natasha shook him, her eyes wide, and pointed at the door.

"Shit." Clint found his hearing aids and stuffed them in, then got up, covering Natasha as best he could with the blankets. 

"I don't care if you're suspended, you need to get up at a decent hour," Mrs. Sullivan said as he peered out at her. He'd only opened the door a crack. "Come down and eat breakfast."

"I don't feel good," he said. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"Let me feel your forehead," she said.

He didn't want her to touch him. The last thing he wanted was for her to touch him, especially since he didn't have a fever or any other symptoms other than grainy eyes from lack of sleep and sore muscles from the struggle with Natasha the night before.

"I don't have a fever," he said.

"Let me check anyway," she told him, and so he opened the door a little farther and stepped out. Her eyes widened as soon as she saw him fully. "What happened to your face?"

_Aw fuck._ He'd forgotten about the scratches on his cheek, although now that he thought about them they kind of hurt. "I scratched myself," he said. "I don't even know how. Stupid, I know." He tried to laugh it off, like it was no big deal. 

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything. She pressed her hand to his head, and then his cheek. "You do feel a little warm. Go ahead and get a little more sleep, but come down and have some breakfast at some point. You need to eat to help your body fight the bug."

Maybe she knew he was lying, and maybe she didn't, but at least he was temporarily off the hook. "Thanks," he said, and went back into his room, shutting the door and blocking it again.

Natasha was sitting up in his bed, her hair tousled and her arms wrapped tight around herself. "I should go."

Clint stopped dead. "What?"

"I should go. I let you bring me here but was wrong." She untangled herself from the blankets and began looking for her clothes.

"How was it wrong?" Clint asked, getting in her way. She tried to dodge around him but he side-stepped to block her again. "'Tasha."

"No." She glared up at him, her hands at her sides in fists. "No, not 'Tasha. _Natalia._ You throw that name in my face like insult, then forget? Think everything just the same as before? There is no before, Clint. There is only now. Only this minute, only next. I can't remember before."

"You can't... literally? Or...?" She hadn't actually lost her memory. That wasn't what she was saying, but his head was swimming and maybe he was sick after all. He certainly felt a little queasy.

"Is too painful," she said. "You promise, but you lie. So I forget you. Is easier."

"What did I promise, Natasha? When did I lie?" He'd never lied to her. He would never do that, because he knew that what they had was fragile, and her trust had been hard won. A lie could bring it all tumbling down.

She shoved past him, and this time he didn't stop her. When she tugged off the shirt he'd lent her the night before, he saw marks on her skin that he doesn't want to, marks left by someone who touched her, who...

He forced himself to look away, because this wasn't how things should be. "You didn't answer my question," he said, listening to the sounds of her getting dressed. 

She turned on him then, and there were tears in her eyes. "You tell me you will be there. No matter what, you say. I think I cannot believe you, but I want to. Is all I want. But then... you run. I ask you to wait and you _run_. Your promise is lie. I think you are different, but you are same."

He watched the tears spill over and slide down her cheeks, and he wanted to kiss her, to kiss them away, but it was the wrong thing to do. It was the worst possible thing to do. It had to be. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Natasha... I'm sorry."

"Sorry mean nothing," she said, her voice choked and rasping. "Sorry is just word."

"I know. And I can't make you believe me, and maybe you shouldn't because you're right. I said that and then I let you down. I fucked it up. I fucked _us_ up, and if I could do it over again... But I can't. I know that. And I don't deserve a second chance, but I swear, Natasha, I'll listen."

She looked at him, her fingers digging into her sleeves, tugging at the material. "I don't have words for it," she said finally. "I not know English for things like this."

But she did. In fits and starts, sometimes one word at a time, she spat them out like bloody shards of something broken deep inside.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bonus chapter for you all! Don't say I never gave you anything. ;-)

"You're not going back there." They were the first words out of Clint's mouth when he realized that there was nothing left for Natasha to say. It felt like he'd been dragged into a deep, dark hole, and it took a while to claw himself back out.

Natasha looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Where I am going to stay?"

"Here. You can stay here." She couldn't, and he knew it, but there was no way he could let her go back to her uncle – who might not even be her uncle; she'd said once that her mother had never mentioned having a brother – to be used, to be _sold_ like she was just another item in his shop. 

" _Da?_ You tell your fake parents you keep me like stray dog you find on street?" She snorted. "Is not how things work."

"Well we have to think of _something_. You can't go back there. You can't keep letting these men—"

Her spine stiffened and her cheeks flooded with color. "Let?! You think I _let_ this happen? You think I like it? You think I have choice? No. Is do as told or _pfft_ , back to Russia. To do... what? To live on streets and do same thing. Here at least I have roof over head, stay warm. Here at least I have school to escape. Here at least I have..."

_You._ That's what she wasn't saying, but it was in her eyes. Here she had him, Clint Barton. Here, she wasn't alone.

And how the hell was he supposed to live up to that? 

And how the hell could he not?

"Wrong word," he said. "I'm sorry. But 'Tasha, it's..." Now he was the one without the words. 

The sound she made was somewhere between a snort and a sigh, and the flash of anger was gone, replaced by resignation. "Is life. Is my life."

How could he convince her that this wasn't okay, that things didn't have to be this way? It was obvious she didn't like it, that she hated it, and maybe hated herself for doing it, but she couldn't see a way clear of it, either, so she just accepted it. 

But he couldn't. How could he? How could he let her go back to that? How could he sleep at night, knowing that instead of watching TV or doing homework or doing other normal teenage things, her uncle might be collecting money from some stranger and handing her over to be _raped_?

_Not everything is about you, Clint Barton._ Her words echoed in his head and dug claws into his heart. _You promised, but you lied._

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then reached out and took her hand, resting his fingers over hers lightly, ready to take it away if she so much as flinched. But she didn't. She just stared at his hand, then laced their fingers together, one by one, and held on. 

"Natasha," he said softly. "I know that I said this before, and I broke my promise, but this time I swear. I swear to you I will be here, no matter what."

She just kept staring at their joined hands, and seconds ticked by. Slowly, she looked up and met his eyes. "Why?"

"Because you're my best friend. You're my best _everything_ , Natasha Romanova. Since the day I met you. Because..." He looked down at their hands and extended his thumb, index finger and pinky, leaving the others laced with Natasha's.

She looked down too, and pulled her hand away. "No. No, Clint." She shook her head, her curls falling into her eyes as she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "Don't say that. You can't say that."

"Why not?"

"How you can say that? How you can even look at me? What I have done..." She buried her face against her knees.

"That wasn't you," Clint said. "Listen to me, 'Tasha. Look at me."

She tipped her head, peering out at him. 

He let his hands speak for him then, because it was their thing, theirs alone, and maybe, somehow, she would understand it better if she could _see_ the words, reach out and touch them if she wanted to. Maybe it would make them real when sounds that could disappear into the air, could be misheard, were not.

_That person, the one who did those things, who was forced to do those things, that wasn't you. That was Natalia._ He pointed to her, then back to himself, then back to her, and spelled out N-A-T-A-S-H-A, then pressed his palm to his chest and spelled T-A-S-H-A. _With me, you aren't that person. With me, you're the same person you've always been. Nothing changes that. Maybe that's crazy, but that's how I see it._

Natasha just looked at him for a long time. Slowly, she unfolded herself. Her fingers began to shape words carefully, as painstaking as they were when they first started, like she's forgotten or was afraid of getting it wrong. _When it happens it feels like it's someone else. I just dream myself out of it until it's over._

_Dream yourself here. I'll keep you safe._

It wasn't until after he's said it that Clint realized how weird that might sound. He grimaced and raised his hands to try and explain, or at least apologize, but she caught them and shook her head. _Thank you._

She tipped her head, almost smiling, and the light coming in through the window caught in her hair and made it glow, and Clint wanted to reach out and touch it but the moment was so fragile, they were both so fragile, that he was afraid to move.

And then it was shattered by Mrs. Sullivan shouting up, "Clinton, breakfast!"

_Your not-mother is calling,_ Natasha signed.

_I know._ Clint grinned and tapped his hearing aid. _But thank you. I have to go down there, but I'll sneak something up for you, okay? I have an idea._

_Don't get yourself in trouble,_ Natasha replied. _Not for me._

_What better reason is there?_ Clint squeezed her hand and went to go deal with Mrs. Sullivan.

She'd made him eggs and toast, and even though he usually didn't bother much with breakfast, he sat down obediently to eat. He would have to wait until she was distracted to steal something for Natasha, who had to be starving. 

"Are you feeling any better?" she asked.

"A little. Hopefully it's just a twenty-four hour thing, since I gotta go back to school tomorrow."

"Where you will not get into any more fights," Mrs. Sullivan said, turning and glaring at him.

"I won't. I just... I was having a really bad day and I lost control. I'm sorry." She sniffed, but didn't say anything. "I, uh, actually wanted to ask you something." When she looked at him, he did his best to look like a humble, contrite, whatever else she might want son. "I have a project due for my independent study on Friday. I was wondering if my friend could come over to work on it this afternoon. We're way behind because of me, and she doesn't deserve to be punished 'cause I fu—" He stopped himself as her eyebrows shot up. "'Cause I messed up."

"If you're not feeling well, you really shouldn't have anyone over, Clinton," she said.

"It'll just be for a few hours. We really need to work on it or it might not get done on time." 

Mrs. Sullivan looked at him for a long time, and he did his best to look innocent. Finally she sighed. "Fine. She can come over once I'm home from picking up the boys."

"Thank you." He smiled at her and finished his breakfast, and even offered to wash his own dishes, which won him brownie points and also got her out of the kitchen while she started the laundry. He grabbed some Pop-tarts and poured a glass of juice (he'd just have to sneak it down later) and headed upstairs once his dishes were in the drainer.

"Sorry I couldn't get anything better," he said, handing the food over to Natasha. She tore into it with a quick signed thank you. "I'll try to do better for lunch."

_It's fine._

_I talked her into letting you come over to work on a project after school._ Clint grinned. _When she leaves to pick up the other kids, we'll sneak you out, and then you can come back as a legitimate guest._

Natasha stopped chewing, her face settling into a frown. _Are you sure?_

_You're my friend. That's all they know, and that's all they need to know. It means you'll be able to be here for a few hours, at least, without having to worry about being caught._

_I'm going to have to go home eventually,_ Natasha pointed out. 

Clint shook his head. _No. You're going to have to go **back** eventually. You already **are** home._

She looked down then, hiding her face for a moment before she looked up. _Idiot._ But she was smiling, really smiling so that it even made it to her eyes, and he couldn't ask for more than that.


	21. Chapter 21

They spent the rest of the day in Clint's room, watching movies on his laptop with the sound off and the subtitles on so that Mrs. Sullivan couldn't hear and coming prying. He didn't know if she thought that he was doing homework or sleeping or what, but she mostly left him alone. He managed to smuggle a tuna sandwich up to Natasha, along with some cookies, and she devoured them while they finished some cheesy action movie. 

He was relieved that she seemed to be relaxing, at least a little. It felt like knots that had been all through his body were slowly coming undone each time she nudged him or let her shoulder press against his, or smiled or laughed or showed any sign, really, that she wasn't broken and neither were they. 

"I'm going to get the boys!" Mrs. Sullivan called up finally. "I'll be back in a little bit!"

"Okay!" he called back, and waited for the door to close. He peered out the window and watched her car disappear from the driveway. _Now we get you out so you can come back in._

_I don't have any of my school stuff,_ Natasha pointed out. _Are you sure she's not going to ask too many questions?_

_No,_ Clint admitted. _But we're both pretty good liars. I can always tell her that part of the reason that you're so angry with me for getting suspended is because I had all of our project stuff with me, so you couldn't even work on it._

The corner of her mouth curled up. _Fine. I'll let you do the talking._

_Carnie, remember? I'm a professional liar._

Her smile slipped slightly and she looked away. Clint's heart sank. But she looked back at him after a second. _Maybe to other people. I know when you're lying to me._ Again, that tiny half-smile. _And I know you wouldn't dare._

_No way,_ he agreed. _You scare me._

_I should._

Clint sent Natasha out into the cold in several layers of hoodie and his beat up old coat that the Sullivans had replaced but that he'd refused to get rid of. He hoped that Mrs. Sullivan wouldn't recognize it. He didn't really feel like explaining... well, anything, if he could avoid it. 

She got home with the boys a little while later, and they settled down at the kitchen table for a snack. Once they were done with that, it would be homework time, so of course they tried to drag it out as long as possible. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Clint went to answer it, letting Natasha in. She had two cups in her hand. 

"Hot chocolate," she told him in an undertone. "I find five dollar in your pocket."

"Gee, thanks," he said, but he took one, grinning. "Wasn't that nice of me to treat us?"

"Very nice," Natasha said. "You're welcome."

He headed for the stairs, hoping they could escape without notice, but Mrs. Sullivan came into the hall. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Clinton?" she asked, in that tone that made it not really a question.

Natasha looked at him, eyebrows raised, and mouthed, 'Clinton?' 

_Don't start._ He took her into the kitchen, and of course the boys all swiveled in their seats to look... and then stare. "Mrs. Sullivan, this is Natasha. Natasha, Mrs. Sullivan."

Natasha held out her hand to shake his foster mother's. "It is good to meet you," she said. 

Everyone's eyes bugged out a little at her accent, and had he forgotten to mention that she was from Russia? He thought he'd said that, back when he'd first told them that Mr. Coulson had asked him to show her around. Probably they'd forgotten. 

"It's nice to meet you too, Natasha," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Would you like a snack?"

"We're fine," Clint said. "We're just gonna go upstairs and—"

"You can work on your project down here," Mrs. Sullivan said. "There's plenty of room at the table."

_You have got to be fucking kidding me,_ Clint thought, and he barely managed to suppress a groan. Was this really happening? When had his life turned into a sitcom? "We'll get distracted," he said, looking at the boys. "Or we'll distract them. They'll ask a million questions and no one will get anything done." He lifted his chin slightly. "You never make me do my homework downstairs." Part defiance, part 'do you not trust me to be alone with a girl upstairs?' Which was probably more defiance, really. 

He'd never given her any reason not to trust him... that she knew of. And weren't relationships supposed to be based on respect and trust? Wasn't that was their family therapist said? That in order for the foster family situation to work, they all had to trust each other?

He could see it all playing through her mind, the words that she'd probably heard a million times in the years that they'd been taking in foster kids. But he was the oldest one they'd ever had stay with them, and this was new territory. 

"Leave your door open," she said.

"Yes ma'am." 

They escaped upstairs to the sounds of the boys demanding to know why he got to have a friend over, and why he got hot chocolate, and why did she talk funny, and on and on. He closed his door most of the way, but left it open a few inches so that Mrs. Sullivan couldn't bitch if she came up to check on them. As soon as he did, Natasha burst out laughing. If she hadn't been holding a cup of hot chocolate that he'd (unknowingly) paid for, he would have thrown a pillow at her.

They didn't actually have a project due on Friday, but they did have things that they could be working on, so Clint got out their books and spread them out. They sat on the bed, cross-legged and facing each other at a perfectly respectable distance, so that when Mrs. Sullivan came up and poked her head in to see what they were up to (because silence interspersed with laughter probably wasn't all that reassuring) she had nothing to complain about. 

Clint noticed that she did leave the door open a little wider than he had. Of course. He could see the sun sinking outside the window, and he dreaded the moment when they would be told that it was time for Natasha to go. He was more than a little surprised when instead Mrs. Sullivan asked her if she wanted to stay for dinner.

"Are you sure?" she asked. 

"Of course," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Do you need to call your parents?"

"She can use my phone," Clint said. "We'll let you know in a couple of minutes, okay?"

"Of course." She went back downstairs. 

Clint looked at Natasha, who had gone pale. _Stay,_ he pleaded. _It can't be any worse, going back now or going back in a few hours, right?_

_It's going to be bad,_ she replied. _Either way, it's going to be very bad._

_So stay,_ he said. _Please, 'Tasha._

She hesitated, twisting her fingers together, then finally nodded. _Okay._

_I'll tell her._ Clint ran downstairs to tell Mrs. Sullivan that Natasha was staying, then went back up to her. She was pacing, chewing her lip, but she stopped when he held his hand out to her, and slid into his arms.

It was different than the night before, and yet the same somehow. This time she wasn't fighting, but there was the same sense of defeat in her. He wanted to tell her that it would be okay. Maybe not right away, but they would think of something, and it would be all right. But he couldn't make the words come, not when he couldn't be sure that they weren't lies. 

He worked his fingers into her hair, massaging the back of her head and her neck. He felt more than heard her sigh, then take a deep shuddering breath in. She looked up at him and forced a smile. "Is okay," she murmured. 

Clint rested his forehead against hers, and it felt for a second almost like they were dancing, so he shuffled his feet a little and then they were, which made her laugh which made him smile and maybe she was right. In that moment, if only for that moment, it was okay.

Dinner wasn't as awkward as he feared it would be, and for once he wasn't in a rush to get away from the table. Everyone had questions for Natasha, and some about their project, and they both lied glibly enough that they managed to convince everyone, maybe even including themselves, that the situation was totally normal. 

But then it ended, and Mr. Sullivan told Natasha he would drive her home. They only had a moment at the door while the car warmed up.

Clint looked at her, his stomach churning. _I'll see you tomorrow._ But his eyebrows were up, turning it into a question because he couldn't really be sure. 

_You will see me,_ she replied, the motions firm, definite.

_You know where I am if you need me._ He poked his phone in his pocket. 

_I know._

He hugged her then, a quick, hard squeeze, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. _Be safe, 'Tasha._

He hoped it was enough to get them both through the night.


	22. Chapter 22

As soon as Mr. Sullivan drove away, Clint's heart started racing and his stomach tied itself in knots. He thought for a while that he was going to lose his dinner, but managed to keep it down, barely, even as his imagination went wild, dreaming up all sorts of things that might happen to Natasha when she got back to her uncle.

What had he been thinking? How could he let her go back, knowing what was going on? When had he become so complacent, so used to having food and shelter, a warm bed and clean clothes and all of that stuff that used to just belong to kids on TV, that he'd forgotten where he'd come from? He could have taken her away from here. They could have run, and he hadn't even thought of it until it was too late. 

She'd told him that he would see her the next day. She'd as much as promised, without saying the words, and he'd believed her, but once she was out of his sight, it was out of both of their hands. For all he knew, her uncle would go crazy on her for disappearing and make her vanish. She'd disappeared for a week before, and as far as Clint knew no one had done anything about it. Was it so hard to believe that he would just pull her out of school permanently? What would anyone do?

He couldn't sleep. He went to bed early, just because he couldn't stand being around the boys and Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan and all of their normal family bullshit, but he couldn't sleep. He laid awake, his phone clutched in his hand, staring at its screen, hoping – maybe even praying, but if he'd considered the possibility that God might exist before, he now had incontrovertible proof that he didn't, and if he did, then he was a sick fuck, because who would let this happen to anyone, much less a 15-year-old girl? – that she would send him a message, some sign that she was okay... or at least alive.

Because there was a chance, and he could only hope it was a slim one, but there was a chance that she wasn't. 

Finally, long after midnight and too close to when his alarm would go off, his phone vibrated in his hand, and five words came up on the screen: 'I WILL SEE YOU TOMORROW.' It wasn't much, but it was enough to allow him to grab a couple of hours of restless sleep before he had to get up for school.

He brought coffee for her, figuring she would need it as bad as he did, and waited for her on the front steps. When she approached she was pale and her eyes looked sunken, almost blackened, but there were no visible bruises. She took both travel mugs from him and set them down on the steps.

_Easy,_ she signed. _Gentle._ And then her arms were around him, crushing the air from his lungs, and it wasn't easy or gentle at all, but then the warning hadn't been for her, had it? He wrapped her in a hug, holding her as if she was made of spun glass, pressing his cheek against her hair and breathing her in. 

There was no one else around; it was too cold to linger. So there was no one to see them like this, but it told him pretty much everything he needed to know that she didn't even seem to care, that she was willing to let the world see her weak – at least that's how he thought she would see it, if she wasn't so exhausted she was only just barely staying upright.

"We can go," he whispered into her ear. "We can just pick up and go. I... I'm sorry I didn't think of it yesterday, but it was all I could think about all last night, was how we should have just took off, just ran away and never looked back, gotten you away from him and –"

She reached up and pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him, and shook her head. "Don't."

"But—"

"Please. Not this. Not now." Her eyes pleaded with him, and he didn't understand, but he stopped. 

She buried her face against his neck again, between his collar and his skin, and he could feel her breathing, quick hitches in and slow exhales, and was she crying? Maybe not yet, but she was fighting it. He held her tighter, forgetting for a second, and felt her stiffen, the sharp intake of breath as she winced.

_Easy. Gentle._ "'Tasha..." And then he was trying not to cry, too, and the bell rang, telling them they only had a few minutes to get it together and get to homeroom. Nothing seemed less important. 

She pulled away slowly, reaching up to touch his face, brushing away a tear that he hadn't quite managed to blink back. She smiled sadly as she let her hand fall. "You can be strong, yes? I need you strong."

"I can be strong," he promised her. Because if she could do this, so could he. He had to. He'd already missed three days, and she'd missed at least one, and as far as he knew the school hadn't gotten any explanation of it, unless her uncle had called her in sick. 

"Give me hand," she said, waiting for him to hold his out. She wrapped his fingers in hers and held them clasped together against her chest. With her other hand, she signed, _We're alive. We're together. Everything else doesn't matter._

She dropped his hand and picked up the coffee she'd set aside earlier, handing him one. "I see you for lunch?"

"Of course." He followed her into the building. They paused for a moment in the lobby, and she bumped her shoulder against his, the closest thing to affection they would show where anyone could see. "See you," he said, watching her go, wincing with how slowly she moved, and then had to rush to homeroom so he wouldn't be marked late. 

They both received passes to go to Mr. Coulson's office during lunch. Clint didn't know if it was just them or the whole group, but by the time he got there he was so exhausted he didn't care. He'd done his best to keep up with his work while out of school, but he'd still missed things and now he was scrambling to keep up. He sat in the corner of the couch, using the back and arm both to prop himself up.

Natasha arrived a minute later and sat next to him, closer than usual. She seemed even paler than before, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her and pull her into a hug, but it probably wouldn't be a good idea, he decided. Not right now. Not when they both had to keep it together. 

_Okay?_ , he asked.

_Okay,_ she said. _You?_

He nodded, and she nodded back, and then the others started to arrive and Clint wondered if she even noticed that she curled closer to him as the other seats in the room began to fill. Loki arrived last, and he tried to turn around and walk back out when he saw Clint there, but Mr. Coulson blocked his path. "Have a seat."

"I'm not staying here," Loki said. "Not if he's here."

His face was a mess of bruises; Clint had done more damage than he realized. "I'm sorry," he said, even without prompting. He knew that that would probably be somewhere on today's agenda anyway. Might as well get it over with. "I'm sorry that I did that you to you. I overreacted, and I shouldn't have hit you."

Clint wasn't big on apologies, but he could acknowledge that he'd overreacted, and even if Loki had maybe deserved to be smacked for kicking a guy while he was down, he didn't deserve to be beaten black and blue. 

Mr. Coulson looked at Loki expectantly. Loki sniffed and didn't say anything, but he sat down. Clint assumed that his apology had been, if not accepted, as least good enough to shut Loki up for a little while. There was a part of him that wanted to demand an apology for the comment Loki had made that had caused him to fly off the handle in the first place, but the less attention he drew to himself and Natasha, the better, probably.

"How is everyone today?" Mr. Coulson asked. There were several mumbled okays and fines, and not much else. Everyone seemed caught up in their own little worlds, barely looking at each other. "I know it's been a rough week for many of you. Does anyone want to talk about anything?"

"I thought this wasn't a support group," Tony said. "If we wanted to talk, don't you think we'd just do it? Anyway, I already have a shrink. So does Bruce."

The other boy looked up sharply, then subsided back into himself, apparently deciding that it wasn't a battle worth having with Tony. 

"I bet so does Clint, too, right?"

"Right," he agreed. 

"What about you, Natalia?" Tony asked, a bold move considering their history. 

"Natasha," she said.

"Uh... is that Russian for yes or no?" Tony asked. 

"No." Natasha shook her head. "I mean, _da_ is yes and _nyet_ is no. I mean, call me Natasha. Not Natalia. Natasha is... familiar form." She glanced at Clint, one eyebrow raised, and he smiled at her. 

"Uh, okay," Tony said. "So, Natasha, do you see a shrink? What about you, Steve? Thor? Loki?" He rolled his eyes. "What I mean is, we all probably already have people forcing us to talk about our day or our life or our plans for the future or whatever bullshit adults think they need to know to understand us. Maybe we're tired of talking. Maybe we've got better things to do than to be here. Like science projects."

"You've been permanently banned from the science fair, Tony," Mr. Coulson reminded him.

"Who said it was school-sanctioned?" Tony replied. 

"Are you using school resources or property?" Mr. Coulson asked.

"Not... exactly..." Tony smirked, looking over at Bruce, who looked like he wanted to disappear. 

"Then..." The social worker stopped. "You know what? I don't want to know. But that's fine. I take your point. Trying to make you talk when you don't feel like it is pointless. So what would you rather do?"

"Get back to the lab with Bruce," Tony said.

"I have an art project," Steve admitted. 

"I need to practice my lines," Thor piped up.

"I guess we'll call this meeting a wash," Mr. Coulson said, giving up. "I'll see you all next week."

Everyone else got up and left. Clint looked at Natasha and asked, "Can we just stay here for the rest of lunch?"

"Go ahead," Mr. Coulson said. "I'm just going to do some paperwork." He left them there with the door partway open, to keep an eye on them, Clint assumed. Not that there was anything to keep an eye on. All they did was share the lunch he'd brought, too tired even to make any attempt at conversation.

Later, when they had their independent study time, Clint asked her again, because she'd said not now, but he couldn't let it go. _We could go,_ he told her. _We could just leave, get away from all of this._

_And go where?_ , Natasha asked. _Where will we stay? It's too cold to live outside._

_We'll go south, where it's warm._

_How will we get money?_

Clint frowned. _Maybe we'll meet up with a circus. I've got a bow. It's not a great one, but I'm sure—_

_What will I do? I don't have a circus act, and I think I know what girls in that world do in that case._

She wasn't wrong. He grimaced. _We would figure something out._

_My uncle will look for me. He won't stop looking until he finds me._

_'Tasha, **please**._

_I can't, Clint._ She looked at him, chewing the inside of her lip. _I'm sorry._

_I don't understand._ He didn't. He couldn't. He knew that it wouldn't be easy, but anything had to be better than staying here, going through what she was going through. 

_I know. But... I have to stay._

_**Why?** _

She leaned in, bringing herself so close he could feel her breath as she spoke, eyes wide and serious, "I think I am not alone."


	23. Chapter 23

"What do you mean?" Clint was pretty sure that Natasha wasn't talking about him here, that she wasn't alone because she had him. There was something heavy in her tone, something that felt bigger than both of them. Which wasn't exactly unusual with her these days.

Natasha looked around and shook her head. "Not here." She grabbed her backpack and stood up, and held out her hand to Clint. 

He took it without any further questions. If she said not here, she meant not here, and if he wanted to find out anything more, he was going to have to follow where she lead. He hoped it wasn't the cemetery, because it really was way too cold for that, but he wasn't sure where else they would go.

But Natasha took him to a coffee shop and paid for coffee for both of them, and a pastry to share, and then took him up to a little lounge type area that this place had in its basement. It wasn't very well lit, but that was probably better for them. She found them seats in a corner, checking their surroundings again. 

_I think I'm not alone,_ she repeated. 

Clint frowned. He didn't understand it any better the second time around. _What do you mean?_

_I think... I'm not the only girl. Maybe the only one my uncle has, but not the only one in general._ She paused, took a sip of her coffee and a bite of the pastry, chewing slowly. She could have continued even while she was chewing, but she didn't. _I think I'm not the first._

_Why do you think that?_

_Because when I came he already had so many things for me, and it didn't really make sense. He didn't know me, didn't know my size or what I might like. Why waste your money getting things that might be all wrong? He never spends a penny he doesn't have to, but I didn't know that then. Now I know, though, and when I started thinking about it, it all felt wrong._

_But that doesn't really prove anything,_ Clint pointed out. _Maybe he got them used. Second hand, hand-me-downs, something like that. Maybe he knew someone who had a daughter who outgrew them or something. You're not that big._

_Maybe,_ she agreed. _But I don't think that's it._

_What do you think then?_

_I think that there was another girl before me, that he used like me. I think that they were her clothes._

It felt for a second like Clint had swallowed ice, and it was making its way through him. He took a gulp of coffee, wanting to make the feeling go away, wincing as it burned its way down. _Where is she now then? What happened to her?_

_She killed herself._

Clint just stared at her for a minute, and she looked back. He could tell that she wanted him to believe her, _needed_ him to believe her, and as much as he didn't want to, he did. _How do you know?_

_I found a report._

A chill went down Clint's spine. _What kind of report?_

_A... death report. Cause of death. What do you call it? I can't remember._

_Autopsy?_ He had to spell the word because he didn't know the sign for it. He would have to look it up later, out of morbid curiosity (no pun intended).

_Yes, autopsy. I found it in his desk. It said the cause of death was overdose on pills, and it was ruled a suicide. But then there was another report with it with the same name, and that one said that it was an accidental overdose._

Clint got up and moved over to the small couch where Natasha was sitting, needing to be closer to her because this conversation was starting to freak him out, and not much could do that. _Why would there be two different reports?_

_Because he wouldn't want the real one to get out._ Natasha crossed her legs, turning to face him, close enough that her knees pressed into his leg. _He wouldn't want anyone to know. So he made sure that it didn't get out._

_How?_

_Paid someone, maybe, to falsify the report, or just buried the original and had someone forge a new one._ She shrugged. _Somehow, he did it. That's what matters. And then he came for me._ She looked at him, leaning in closer like she needed to shelter her signs from anyone else seeing them, even though Clint was pretty sure that no one else in the room could understand. _The date on the report is only a few weeks before he came to Russia and got me._

It was a lot to take in, and Clint didn't want to get it wrong this time. He didn't want to let her down. But he'd been taught all his life not to get yourself mixed up in other people's business, and this was bad, bad business to get mixed up in.

But he was already in it. Because there was no way he could walk away from her now. A person couldn't live without a heart, and he'd have to rip his out to turn his back. 

_Can I ask a question?_ Natasha nodded. _Why were you looking in his desk?_ He was worried, a little, that she would be upset at him for asking, that she would think he didn't believe her or something and that she would try to run again. 

She didn't. _I was looking for anything I could find about how he got me here. How he got me out of Russia._

_Because you don't think he's your uncle._ She'd said it once, and he'd thought that maybe it was just wishful thinking, but now, in light of everything else, maybe she'd been serious... or maybe somewhere along the line it had gone from wishful thinking to near-certainty. 

_Right._ She nodded emphatically. _I was looking to see if I could find any proof._

_But... if you found it, what were you going to do?_ He didn't know a lot about how these things worked, exactly, but there had been a few people he'd known on the carnie circuit who were in the country not so legally, and they'd always been afraid if they were found out they'd be sent back to their home country. _If you tell someone about him... couldn't you get... sent back?_

Natasha looked away, nodding slightly. _But we would think of something._

We. The word felt good. The word felt pretty damn amazing, actually, especially in that context. She trusted him to be able to help her figure out a way to stay, even if she brought her uncle down somehow. And she _wanted_ to stay. 

_Right. So did you find anything?_

_Not yet, but I'm going to keep looking. Because I did find a few things that make me think maybe other people he knows have girls like me, and... I have to help them if I can. So they don't end up like the girl before me, or worse._

What kind of world did they live in, that they could both think of things worse than suicide? 

_That's why I can't go,_ she said. _That's why I can't just leave with you. This is something I have to do._

Clint reached out and touched her arm lightly. _I understand._ And he did. It would probably all end really, really badly for both of them, but he understood. _I'm with you._


	24. Chapter 24

Clint had just managed to drift off when his phone vibrated in his hand. He blinked awake, squinting at the text message that appeared on his screen: 'Can I call you?'

'Of course,' he sent back without thinking. He would just have to keep his voice down.

'I can't talk. He might hear me.'

He frowned, puzzled at the apparent contradiction. He didn't have any time to question it, though, because his phone started buzzing again. "Hello?" Natasha didn't say anything, but he could hear the rustle of blankets and the sound of her breathing. "'Tasha... are you all right?" 

She made a sound, a huff of breath like she was frustrated or annoyed, but still didn't say anything. 

"Okay," he said after a few seconds. "I'll just do the talking, okay? I'll do the talking, and you can just listen until you get sick of listening, or until you fall asleep, okay?" Still no answer, and his chest ached with the helpless feeling it left him.

But he talked anyway, keeping his voice low, telling her stories about working with the circus – funny stories and weird stories and anything that popped into his head that he didn't think would upset her – and hoping that it helped her somehow. 

He talked for almost an hour. When he stopped, he didn't hear anything. "Okay, 'Tasha," he whispered. "I'm going to hang up now, but you call back if you need me to keep talking. But I think you might be asleep. I hope you are. I'll see you in the morning, okay?" _I love you._ But those were words he couldn't say. They just weren't fair, given the circumstances. 

She didn't call back, but in the morning she thanked him. She didn't try to explain and he didn't ask. There was no reason to turn it into a bigger deal than it was. She'd needed him and he'd been there in the best way he could be, and that was good enough. It had to be.

That became their pattern, exchanging texts and sometimes phone calls at all hours of the night, whenever it was safe for Natasha to do so. Clint never called her first, never texted, because he didn't know where she was or who she was with, and the last thing he wanted was to get her in trouble. So he tried not to think about it and waited to hear from her, just to know she was safe, and more or less all right. 

Then came the storm.

They found out that school would be closed the next day on Thursday night. A huge storm – historic, the weather men were saying – was expected, and although it wasn't supposed to hit until mid-day, all of the schools in the area were shutting down preemptively, not wanting to bring the kids in only to have it become treacherous getting them home.

That night when Natasha texted, Clint was already keyed up. 'I have a plan.'

'A plan for what?'

'No school tomorrow and then all weekend.'

'I know. So?'

'So I don't want you stuck with him.'

Clint didn't figure he needed to explain which him he was referring to. 'What's your plan?'

'I talk Mrs. Sullivan into letting you come over early. Then we stay quiet and out of way, let her forget you're there. Wait 'til it gets bad, then they have to let you stay.'

There was a long pause that left Clint squirming, waiting for an answer. Finally it came. 'That's stupidest thing I've ever heard.'

'Why?'

'They won't let me stay. They want permission from my uncle.'

'I have a plan for that, too.'

'What?'

'You'll see. Just come over tomorrow. Even if plan fails, you'll still get away for a little while.'

'Is going to fail.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence. Will you come?' No answer. 'Please?'

'I might not be able to get away.'

'You will. Promise.'

'Is that a question?'

'Not really.'

'I'll try.'

'You will. See you tomorrow.'

She was probably right. It was probably a stupid plan, and it was probably going to fail. But he had to try, because Clint couldn't stomach the thought of her being trapped with her uncle, snowed in, for days. Not when the things that happened to her when she was with him sometimes had her clinging to him like she needed him to keep her from going to pieces (but only when no one could see) and other times she wouldn't let him touch her at all, and would barely look him in the eye. 

If there was any chance of him keeping her safe, even for a day or two, it was a chance he had to take. 

In the morning, at breakfast, he told Mrs. Sullivan, "Natasha is coming over in a little while."

She turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

"She's coming over. You said she could come over after school Friday, but there's no school, so I told her to come over early so we can work on our project before the weather gets bad."

"When did I say that?" Mrs. Sullivan asked.

"Last week. I asked last week and you said she could come over." Clint gave her his best innocent look, the one that he'd always used to get out of things back when he was with the circus and needed to escape some bit of trouble or another. 

She looked doubtful, but finally sighed as a shouting match started up in the other room and drew her attention away. "I don't remember saying that," she told him. "But as long as she goes home before the weather gets bad... go ahead." 

Which was what Clint had been counting on, because of course she'd never said any such thing. He'd never asked. But she dealt with so many appointments and everything else with the younger boys, he figured he might just be able to convince her that it had slipped her mind. 

So when Natasha texted to tell him that she'd managed to escape the house, he told her to come over as soon as she could. 

They disappeared into Clint's room (with the door open, of course) and made sure to keep quiet, only making their presence known for lunch. The snow had still barely started at that point, and Clint managed to convince Mrs. Sullivan that they still had a lot of work to do, and if they could just have one more hour... two at most... they might be able to get it done.

It was pure dumb luck that Connor had a complete meltdown shortly thereafter, drawing Mrs. Sullivan's attention away from everything else for quite a while. Next thing they knew, Mr. Sullivan was getting home, announcing to everyone that the roads were a mess and that a travel ban was going into place in about half an hour, so he'd had to come home early. 

Clint looked at Natasha, grinning, but she didn't smile back. 

_She's going to remember,_ she signed. _She's going to remember and they're going to send me home._

_No they're not,_ Clint replied. _He just said the roads are a mess. He's not going to want to go back out in that._

_They're not going to let me stay,_ Natasha insisted. _There's no way. They'll want to know that I have my uncle's permission at the very least, which there's no way I can get!_

_Don't worry about that,_ Clint signed. _I have a plan._

_What is your plan?_ she demanded. _How are you going to get around that one? If they have any sense at all they'll want to talk to him. They won't just take my word for it._

_You could tell them that he doesn't speak any English,_ Clint pointed out. _Then they would have to. But my plan is better._

_What **is** it?_

_Thor._ Clint's grin widened as Natasha just stared at him.

_Thor? **That's** your plan?_

_Yes. He's got the deepest voice we know, and he's an actor. When the Sullivans ask you for your uncle's number, we give them Thor's instead, and we just have Thor impersonate him, and give permission. Easy._

_You're insane._

_Maybe. But it could work._

_Have you told Thor about this plan?_

_Not yet,_ Clint was forced to admit. _I guess I probably should._

_You think?_ Natasha crossed her arms, leaning back against the side of his bed from where she was sitting on the floor. She obviously didn't think it was going to work.

Clint had gotten Thor's number from the phone list for the cast and crew of the musical. He dialed it, crossing his fingers as it rang once, then twice, then a third time.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Thor. It's Clint. Barton?"

"Hello, Clint! How are you?" Clint wasn't sure quite how to react to the quarterback's enthusiasm, or the fact that he didn't seem surprised to be hearing from someone that he only ever spoke to when they were shut up in the social worker's office together with a bunch of other misfits. 

"I'm good. But, uh, I actually need a favor. Me and Natasha do."

"Of course," Thor said. "What do you need?"

"We, uh, we need you to pretend to be her uncle."

Thor laughed, although a hint of uncertainty had crept in. "Why?"

"Because she's here now, and the weather's really bad and it's not really safe to be out there, and we want her to stay here, but my parents are going to want to talk to her uncle, get his permission, except I'm not sure he'd actually give it, so, uh..."

Suddenly, all of the cheer and goodwill on the other end seemed to evaporate, and when Thor spoke again, his voice was far less resonant. "Look, I get it, bro, I do, opportunity of a lifetime, but..."

"Then just say you'll do it," Clint said. "It'll only take a minute. You're the only person we know who could pull it off."

"I really don't think—"

Natasha grabbed for the phone, trying to pull it from Clint's hand. "Let me talk."

"Are you—"

"Let me talk!" Clint handed over the phone, a little bit afraid of what tactics she might employ to get it from him otherwise. "Thor, is Natasha. We need for you to do what Clint asks." Now Clint could only hear half the conversation, and he wished he knew what Thor was saying. "Please. My uncle... he is not good man. I cannot be trap with him." 

Clint looked at her in surprise. Had she actually just said that? Was she actually going to tell Thor...?

"I mean, sometimes he drink and then he yell, and if I am in house with him for so much time... " She screwed up her face. "We are try to fix! I promise. But just for right now, please. I need you to do this thing."

Clint watched her roll her eyes. "Just sound like me, only... more of man." She was quiet for a moment. "Thank you." She hung up. "He will do." She held out the phone to him and her hands were shaking. 

He took it back and dropped it in his pocket, then reached for her hands and held them tight. "It's going to work, 'Tasha. I know it will."

"If it works, it will be very bad when I go back," she said. "Worse than last time, maybe."

He swallowed hard and asked the question that he didn't want to, for fear of the answer. "Do you want to go back? Would you rather take your chances there?"

"No," she said. "I want to be here."

"Okay." He moved to hug her, but she shook her head. "Sorry."

"No sorry," she told him. "When we know is worked, then..." She shrugged. 

"I guess we'd better go talk to the Sullivans, then." Clint resisted the urge to offer her his hand, not wanting to make an ass of himself, getting rejected twice in less than a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's bonus post is brought to you by the fact that a week and a half ago my entire state was buried under 2+ feet of snow, and I had plenty of time to think while I was digging out. So you can consider it "ripped from the headlines" if you'd like. ;-)


	25. Chapter 25

But they stalled, waiting for the boys to settle down so they wouldn't have to be fighting them for the Sullivans' attention, which would only stress them out and make them more likely to say no. Instead they watched out the window as the snow started to really stick to the roads and pile up, shoulder to shoulder, leaning into each other without thinking about it.

"Clinton! Come downstairs and—" Mrs. Sullivan cut off abruptly. "CLINTON!"

"Oops." Clint grinned at Natasha. 

She wasn't smiling. "Should I come down?"

"Probably," he said. 

"CLINTON!" Mrs. Sullivan shouted again. "Get down here right now!"

Clint ran down the stairs, hurrying but trying to act like he wasn't worried. Natasha followed after him, her face a careful mask. "What's up?" he asked.

Mrs. Sullivan's eyes went to Natasha. "You know what's up," she told him. "She was supposed to leave before the storm got bad. Now the roads are a mess, and she's still here." 

"We lost track of time," Clint said, wide-eyed innocent and apologetic. "After lunch we were so busy working, I didn't realize how late it had got."

"Go tell your fa—Go tell Mr. Sullivan that he's going to have to drive Natasha home. He's not going to be happy. He had a very hard time getting home from work, and now the roads are that much worse."

"Maybe she should just stay," Clint said, like it was no big deal. "If it's that bad."

The look she gave him ought to have had him dropping dead on the spot. "That's not funny, Clinton," she said. "Nor is it funny that you conveniently lost track of time just so you could try this... ploy to..." She shook her head, not even having the words. When Clint didn't move, she threw up her hands and went to get Mr. Sullivan herself.

"Go get your things, Natasha," he said when he came into the kitchen. "We need to go as soon as possible." He glanced at the clock. "Damn it." 

"What?" Clint asked.

"They put a travel ban in place, is what. And now I'm going to have to break it because you weren't considerate enough to keep track of the clock and make sure that your friend got home while it was still safe to do so. Now you're putting her, and me, in danger. Did you think of that?"

 _No,_ Clint thought. _I didn't think of that, because I was too busy thinking about all of the things that might happen to her if she was home while all of this was going down. I was too busy thinking about keeping my best friend safe to think about the fact that you would be an asshole about it._

But he couldn't say that. Couldn't say any of it, because if he did, they would get the authorities involved, and the authorities always sided with adults. They would never believe him, or Natasha, because they were kids, and adults were convinced that all kids did was lie. 

"Sorry," he said. "But seriously, why can't she stay?"

Dead twice over, with Mr. Sullivan looking at him now. "I think that should be obvious," he said. 

"What?" Clint held up his hands. "I'll sleep on the couch and she can have my room for the night. That way no one has to go out in the storm. What's the big deal?"

"Absolutely not," Mrs. Sullivan said. 

"Why not?" he demanded. "It's not even like that! We're _friends_. If she was a guy, would you have a problem with her staying?"

"That's different," Mr. Sullivan said.

"Yeah? Is it? What if I'm gay? You don't even know, so it's pretty fu— pretty damn—" He screwed up his face, trying to keep his hands from clenching into fists at his sides, fighting back all of the things that he wanted to say that would only make things worse. "You're making assumptions! You don't know anything about me! Yeah, I fu— messed up, but it ain't that da— that difficult a thing to work around. Just let her stay and tomorrow when it's all over she can go back home. You say that the key to a strong family is trust, but now you're treating me like criminal." He was treading on thin ice, and he knew it, but he also knew that he was right. Or at least less wrong than they were.

"The answer is no and that's final," Mrs. Sullivan said.

"Fine. Then don't even worry about giving her a ride. I'll walk her home."

"You can't go out there on foot," Mr. Sullivan said. "It's too long a walk in this weather, and it's getting worse by the minute."

"Well that's what we're gonna do," Clint said. "You don't wanna help, then don't f— just don't."

Natasha stepped forward, putting her hand lightly on Clint's arm. He didn't know if it was part of an act or if she was trying to calm him down, to get him to step back from the edge of exploding. "I don't want to be bother," she said softly. "It was bad idea for me to come today. I didn't think weather would get so bad so fast." She bit her lip, frowning a little. "My uncle, I stay with, he travel today. Maybe he not get home."

Both of Clint's foster parents were looking at her now. "Your uncle might not be there?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. "Is there anyone else home?" Natasha shook her head, and Mrs. Sullivan sighed. "You two go wait in the living room."

Natasha went first, and Clint followed her. _That was brilliant!_

She rolled her eyes at him. _I told you your plan was stupid._

_From now on, you're the brains of the operation._

_Obviously._ She smirked at him, but when the Sullivans came into the living room, they were both carefully composed, looking as contrite as they could manage.

"We're going to need to speak to your uncle," Mrs. Sullivan said. "We'll find out if he's home, and if he's not, and he says it's okay, you can stay for the night."

"Okay," Natasha said, and Clint nodded. He'd already texted Thor to let him know about the cover story, just in case. She brought up Thor's number on her phone, programmed in as "Uncle", and handed it to Mrs. Sullivan.

She went into the kitchen, and they couldn't hear her side of the conversation. Clint had no idea what Thor said, but whatever it was, it was good enough to convince Mrs. Sullivan. "You can stay," she said, handing the phone back to Natasha. "He's not very happy about it, but he said it's all right."

"Thank you," Natasha said. "It means very much to me."

"Thank you," Clint echoed. "I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention to the clock. It won't happen again." _Unless it needs to._

Once Mrs. Sullivan left the room, he texted Thor. 'THANK YOU.'

'You owe me,' Thor sent back.

A place was set for Natasha at the table, and they were made to clean up afterward, as penance or whatever for causing trouble, Clint assumed. He didn't care, because Natasha was here, and safe, at least for a little while. It wasn't perfect, but it had honestly worked out better than he'd expected. For a plan that really hadn't been much of a plan, they'd pulled it off pretty damn well, if he said so himself.

And he did say so himself. Natasha just rolled her eyes. _Idiot._

The couch was spread with sheets and blankets after everyone else had gone to bed. He said good night to Natasha and tried to settle in. He would rather have been with her, but that wasn't possible. At least he knew where she was, and what wasn't happening while he laid awake thinking about her.

But a little while later, she came padding down the stairs. He sat up and held up the blanket for her to crawl under, wrapping it around them both and tucking it around her. He could feel her shaking. _What's wrong?_

_I called my uncle._

Shit. _Why?_

 _I thought maybe if I told him that I just got stuck at a friend's house he wouldn't be as upset when I get back._ She looked down, then back up to add, _I didn't tell him who or where._

 _Is he angry?_

Natasha nodded. _He says I owe him._

_I'm sorry, 'Tasha..._

She looked at him, long and hard. _I'm not._

The moment stretched, and finally she looked away, then got up and put in a movie, muting the TV and turning on the subtitles. Neither of them paid much attention to it; Natasha was lost in her thoughts and Clint was more focused on her and waiting for her trembling to stop, which it finally did. She snaked her arms around his waist and he draped one of his over her shoulders, so that her head rested on his shoulder. 

Which was how Connor found them, curled up asleep, in the morning.

"MOM! DAD! CLINTON'S IN TROUBLE!"

They didn't have time to fully disentangle themselves before the Sullivans were downstairs, glaring at them like they'd caught them in the act of committing some crime. Never mind the fact that they were both fully clothed and clearly less than half awake.

"Clinton, when we said that Natasha could stay, it was with the understanding that the two of you would sleep in separate rooms. Do you have any idea the sort of liability that this could bring on us? The trouble we could get in if anything happened?"

Clint opened his mouth, but Natasha spoke first. "Nothing happen," she said. "I couldn't sleep so I come down, we watch movie and we fall asleep. That's all."

"Nevertheless, we trusted him to—"

"He did nothing," Natasha insisted. "He stay downstairs on couch, just like you say. I break rules and come down. We think we just watch one movie and I go back up, but I fall asleep. He do nothing. Clint is gentleman. He never would." Her tone is soft, but there's something steely in it, something that warns the wise that it would be better not to argue.

"It's too early for this," Mr. Sullivan said. "I'm going to make coffee." He walked away, and Mrs. Sullivan seemed to deflate slightly. In the end, she just shook her head and followed him.

 _Thank you,_ Clint signed. _For saving my ass again._

_What are friends for?_

But they weren't completely off the hook. Natasha might have been allowed to escape punishment, but Clint was sent outside with a shovel shortly after breakfast to begin the process of digging out from the apparently record-breaking two feet of snow that they'd received. Natasha volunteered to go with him.

Clint had never seen anything like it. When winter hit, the circus had always gone south. He'd seen snow a few times, but never this much of it all at once. Natasha wasn't nearly as impressed, but then, she was from Russia, where snow was far more commonplace. 

It was hard to talk while they were working, because they would have had to shout, and even then Clint could hardly hear her over the wind, and their hands were busy. They settled into a companionable silence quickly, working together and apart until they were too cold to stay outside any longer.

 _It's almost pretty,_ Clint said, _where no one's touched it yet._

Natasha grinned. _I can fix that._ She spread her arms and topped backward into the expanse of unsullied snow, trying to move her arms and legs back and forth. But the snow was too light and powdery, and she sunk so deep that Clint had to pull her back up out of it again, both of them laughing.

He brushed a few flakes of snow from her face, looking down at her and wishing... wishing things were different. That this moment could be more than what it was, even though what it was was more than he'd ever had before. 

Maybe it showed on his face, because her smile faltered slightly, and she looked away, resting her hands on his chest and her forehead against his shoulder before pushing herself away, the moment broken.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bonus post, because I love you all! <3
> 
> (Also because I try to keep this fairly close to real time, and they are a couple of weeks behind the calendar. ;-)

Mrs. Sullivan looked at Natasha, then at Clint, then back at Natasha and sighed. "You should call your uncle and let him know that we can't get you home. You can spend one more night." She didn't look happy about it, but there really wasn't anything that she, or anyone, could do about it.

They had managed to clear enough of the driveway that Mr. Sullivan could get his car out... except that their street still hadn't been plowed, so there was no way that anyone was getting anywhere that day, even after the travel ban was lifted mid-afternoon. 

"Yes ma'am," she said. "Thank you."

"Keep the door open!" Mrs. Sullivan called after them as they went upstairs. 

_Are you going to call him?_ , Clint asked. 

Natasha hesitated, then nodded. _Maybe it won't be as bad if he knows where I am. If he thinks I didn't run away._ She didn't look like she really believed it, though. She took her phone from her pocket and brought up her uncle's number – her real uncle, not Thor – and put it to her ear. 

Clint didn't know what was said, because of course it was all in Russian, but at one point her uncle was yelling so loudly even he could hear it. He hated the way his friend shrank into herself, seeming determined to disappear completely. He hated the way she squeezed her eyes shut tight, and the way her voice got softer and softer, more urgent, more apologetic. He hated that in a barely more than a minute, she was sapped of all of her strength, everything that made her _her_ , and when she hung up, she had tears in her eyes, although she tried to blink them back.

He held out his hands, not knowing what else to do. But she shook her head, forcing a weak smile. "Am okay," she said finally, her voice rough. "I will be."

Clint didn't believe her, but then maybe she had a different definition of okay. Because he was pretty damn sure that whatever her uncle had said, okay played no part in it. _Should I ask what he said?_

Again, that crooked attempt at a smile and a shake of the head.

_Okay._ He got out his laptop and set it on his desk chair, putting in a movie and sitting on his bed with his back against the wall. Natasha settled next to him, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, and he was pretty sure that neither of them had any clue what was happening on screen, but it didn't matter. That wasn't the point. The point was that after a few minutes, Natasha's head dropped against his shoulder and her finger laced through his, and at least for a little while, nothing bad was going to happen to either one of them.

On Sunday, the road was plowed, but it still took Mr. Sullivan (and a borrowed snow blower) several hours to clear the rest of the driveway. Once he did, he took Natasha home. Neither of them could argue with the Sullivans about it; they'd already pushed things as far as they could go without saying things that were better left unsaid at this point. But it left Clint feeling tied in knots, because there was no school the next day, and for who knew how many days after, and neither of them knew (but both could guess with varying degrees of accuracy) what was waiting for her.

*

Although many schools in the area were still closed, they went back on Tuesday, and Clint had never been more glad to be there. He waited on the front steps as usual, watching for a flash of red hair. When he finally saw her, he let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and went down the steps to meet her, searching for any signs of... whatever her uncle might have done.

 _I'm okay,_ she signed, then rolled her eyes at his skeptical look. _Really._

_He didn't..._

She shrugged. _I'm fine, Clint. It's fine._

_It's **not** \--_

_Stop._ Her face set in hard lines. _If I tell you I'm okay, I need you to believe me. End of story._ She softened and took Clint's hand, still hanging in mid-air, and brought it down to rest over her heart. _I won't lie to you. Promise._

Clint blinked hard, then nodded. _Okay._

She stood there for a moment longer, then led him inside. He believed her promise, but it didn't stop the feeling that they were both now waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

But the next day she was still all right, and the day after that. Thursday. February 14. 

Somehow, even with signs all over the school about bake sales and flower sales and everything else, Clint had managed to forget about Valentine's Day. It wasn't something that anyone had ever really made a big deal about in his life, so he just looked past all of the pink and red gaudiness like it didn't matter, because it didn't.

Except apparently it did to a lot of people, because some walked around giddy and others looked heartbroken and it all seemed so stupid and petty. Didn't they realize that there were more important things in life than candy and flowers and hearts? Why was this one day more important than any other day? If you loved someone, shouldn't you show that every day, instead of just one?

It all seemed stupid.

_I have something for you,_ Natasha told him at the start of their independent study. 

_What?_

_Not here._ They were in the middle of the hallway, people flowing past on either side of them on their way to their next class. The words immediately put Clint on edge, but he wasn't going to argue with her about it. She didn't seem upset, so at least that was something. He followed her through the halls and out the door. They had permission, so it wasn't like they were going to get in trouble.

Not that that mattered much, although they'd been trying not to draw attention to themselves, because the last thing they needed was adults taking an interest any more than they already had. 

_Library?_ , he asked.

_Coffee._ She smiled at him, slid her arm through his, and he couldn't help smiling back. He tried to let everything else go for the moment. For once they were getting a chance to just be like any other teenager, and he figured he ought to enjoy it while it lasted. 

Because it never lasted. 

Natasha ordered hot chocolate, and Clint did the same. It came with whipped cream and red sugar sprinkles on top. He could only assume it was yet more Valentine's Day cheer, and he grimaced slightly. _So what is it?_ , he asked when they sat down.

Natasha blushed, bit the inside of her lip. _Nothing much. Just... something I want you to have._

It put him on edge, wondering what she might have that she'd give to him for safekeeping. Wasn't one of the warning signs that someone might be thinking about killing themselves giving away their stuff? Hadn't he read that somewhere? And the fact that after this weekend, when she'd had to go back to hell, she was all calm, like it wasn't a big deal... it wasn't possible that her uncle hadn't done _something_ to punish her. 

He remembered the night that he'd gone looking for her and found her in the cemetery in the cold. She would have died out there if he hadn't found her, if she'd stayed out there. It hadn't been that long ago, and he thought things were... well, maybe not exactly better, but she'd said that she had to help the other girls, if there _were_ other girls, but maybe there weren't and maybe...

His thoughts spiraled out of control, and only stopped when he felt her hand on his chest, tugging down the zipper of his hoodie. He froze, not knowing what she was doing, and not able to see past her hands as the fiddled with the material. After a moment she sat back and shrugged. 

He looked down. Pinned to chest was a little red felt heart. He looked at her, frowning. _What...?_

_We talked about Valentine's Day in English for Dummies._ She meant ESL, but she preferred her own name for it. Even with their independent study, Mr. Coulson hadn't been able to get her completely out of it. _I don't know what a martyred saint has to do with cards and candy and all of that, but..._ She shrugged. 

Clint looked down again, traced it with the tip of his finger. _I didn't get you anything._

_Doesn't matter. That's not what it's about, and I didn't give you anything, really. I just... wanted to do **something**._

Hadn't she, though? Given him something, really? Maybe she was just being silly, but silly wasn't really in her nature. Natasha didn't do things without a reason. She'd given him a heart, and...

No, it was better to take her at her word that it wasn't anything really, because thinking that it might be symbolic of something more would only lead him into trouble. 

_Thank you._

Natasha shrugged again with that not-quite-all-the-way smile that he had gotten so used to, the one that he wished would makes its way to all-the-way more often. _It's safer with you._


	27. Chapter 27

Clint was jerked from tangled dreams at 1:32 am by a text message making his phone vibrate in his hand. 

'Come find me.' And then a second later: 'Please.'

He was out of his bed and tugging on clothes instantly, trying to text back at the same time, nearly crashing into his dresser as he hopped around trying to put on his shoes. 'Can you tell me where you are?'

'Second and Elm. Walking toward your house. I think. Please.'

'I'll be there.'

He grabbed his coat and went out into the night, moving as quickly as he could on streets that were still slick in places from the snow, or worse, black ice where it had melted and refrozen when the temperature dropped. He headed for the intersection that she'd given, hoping that her path and his would meet somewhere in between.

He almost missed her. If there had been anyone else out on the streets in this part of town at this time of night, he might have. But he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned and saw her. At least, he thought it was her. "'Tasha!"

The person stopped, turned, and then came running towards him. "Slow—" he started to say, but it was too late. She slipped and fell hard on the concrete, and didn't get up. 

Clint knelt beside her, brushing back her hair. "Are you okay?" Her face was a mess of running mascara and smeared lipstick. Her hair had been up but was coming undone now, and her winter coat almost completely concealed the red dress she was wearing. Her legs were bare and on her feet were heavy boots. 

"'Tasha, are you okay?" he repeated, trying to get her to sit up. She moved where he pushed her, and finally he got her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her, tight, burying his face in her hair. "It's okay. You're okay now. I have you." 

He didn't need to ask what had happened. The way she was dressed, the state of her face... it told him everything he needed and didn't want to know. They should have seen it coming, but they'd let themselves get caught up in living their lives as if they were normal, even if it had only been for a few hours, and they'd let down their guards. Her uncle had waited to collect the debt he thought she owed him, waited until a day that was supposed to be about love, and twisted it on her, perverted it, and there was no way it hadn't been intentional. 

It was as if he'd known that it would hurt worse this way.

Not that Clint could be sure that it did. But he'd never seen her like this, never had her fingers clawing at his coat, like she wanted to dig through it, burrow into him. He'd never heard her cry like this, like something deep down was broken. 

He held her, wishing they were somewhere else, somewhere warmer, somewhere not so exposed. But there was no way they were moving from this spot until she regained at least a little bit of control. So he waited, holding on, glad that at least she wasn't fighting him, at least she'd called him and was letting him help as best he could. At least she wasn't trying to do this alone anymore. 

Finally her sobs started to slow, and she took deep, shuddering breaths. She lifted her head from his shoulder and swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. "I'm so—" she started, but Clint shook his head, put a finger to her lips lightly, just for a second. 

"No sorry," he told her. "You didn't do anything wrong. You have nothing to be sorry for."

Tears welled up and spilled again, and Clint wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. But she didn't look angry. She didn't walk away, or even try to pull away. So she couldn't be that upset, right? He pushed back her hair, tucking it behind her ear, and let his forehead rest against hers. 

She closed her eyes, and he closed his, and the moment stretched. He didn't know what she was thinking, and he wished he did. Her nose brushed his, cold, and he opened his eyes to find her staring, studying, searching for something in his eyes, his soul, but he had no idea what and he couldn't ask. He could feel her breath on his skin, feel the tension in her body, and they were close, too close.

Because in the quiet and the dark, he could remember the dream she'd woken him from, and every other moment they'd almost had that one or the other of them... and it was usually him... stepped back from.

And he did it again. Because what he wanted was all wrong. Not here, not now, not like this, not when she was barely staying upright on her own. She'd called him a gentleman, and if he could be half the man she thought he was...

_I have something for you,_ he told her, and fished around in his pocket until he found it. He didn't have a pin, so he just put it in her hand instead, a felt heart like the one she'd given him. Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make himself believe it didn't mean _something_.

She squinted at it in the darkness, head cocked and leaning into him, holding it up to the streetlight. _Why is it purple?_ , she asked. 

_I like purple._ Clint shrugged. It was hard to sign so close, but tongues could tangle and trip, and his hands were sure. _And the purple heart is the award they give to those who are wounded in battle. And that's you. And me. So I want you to have it. It's safer with you._

Natasha shook her head, but her fingers closed around it. She was looking up at him again, that searching look that he was sure could see right through him. Just watching him. Waiting. 

He couldn't, shouldn't risk what they had, the trust that they'd built, the proof of which was right here, right now. He didn't want to ruin it all with one stupid idea, but his stupid ideas had seemed to work out lately, and maybe...

It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. He'd thought that maybe, someday, there would be a time and a place that felt right, but here they were in the darkest hours of the night, alone together because what else did they have? 

She'd given him a heart – _her_ heart – and that wasn't nothing. Maybe it was everything.

He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, let his forehead rest against hers again for a second, then tipped his head and kissed her, soft and slow, like she might break or bolt. 

But she didn't. Her arms tightened around him and she kissed him back, harder, hungrier, as fierce and desperate as the world had forced her to be. She only pulled away when they were both breathless, and there was something in her eyes when she looked at him, more fire and life than he'd seen in a long time. Maybe ever. 

_Take me home._

He knew she didn't mean her house. He linked his hand with hers and tucked them both in his pocket, walking slowly so that they didn't slip. She was limping a little; one of her knees was scraped from her fall, but she didn't complain. Once in a while she looked up at him and smiled, crooked and self-conscious, and he smiled back, probably dopey, and whatever had led up to this moment, and whatever would follow, at least for the duration of their walk, things felt good, and right, and safe.

Clint pressed his finger to his lips as they neared his house, reminding her to be quiet. She scowled at him, and he grinned. She scowled harder, but then tugged him in and kissed him, catching him off guard. He let go of her hand to open the door, motioning her in and shutting it quickly behind them, resetting the alarm.

He had just put his foot on the bottom step when the lights came on.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Mr. Sullivan demanded, standing at the top with his arms crossed. 

Clint put himself between his foster father and Natasha without thinking, shielding her from whatever was about to happen. "I—"

"You set off the alarm. The _police_ showed up, and woke up the boys, and scared the heck out of your mo—out of Mrs. Sullivan and I, and of course they're asking if everything is okay, and we go to check on you and you are nowhere to be found. But now here you are, trying to sneak a girl up to your room, and—"

"It ain't like that." Clint tried to keep his tone calm, reasonable. "It ain't. It's..." He glanced at Natasha, saw her wide-eyed and looking ready to run. Her face was even more of a mess than he'd been able to see in the dark... there might be bruises in the morning, and it made him want to put a fist through the wall, or (preferably) the face of whatever bastard did it. She wasn't crying, but it was obvious she had been. 

"I messed up," he said. "I messed up bad, and I'm sorry. But Natasha called, asked me to come get her, and I didn't think. I just went."

One hand behind his back, he spelled out T-R-U-S-T-M-E and hoped she would see it. 

Mr. Sullivan's eyebrows went up and his arms stayed crossed, but he waited to hear the rest of the story. Clint wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one, but at least he was listening. 

"She was out with her boyfriend – her _asshole_ boyfriend – and he decided to dump her. On Valentine's Day. And he just left her, didn't even give her a ride home, and she was in a part of town she didn't know and she was lost and upset and she asked me to come find her so I did. Because she's my best friend, and she needed me, and what else was I gonna do?"

Mr. Sullivan came the rest of the way down the stairs and motioned them into the living room. "Sit down." They sat, and Clint put his arm around Natasha's waist, protective. Not that she needed it, considering how many times she'd gotten his ass out of the fire with his foster parents recently, but if nothing else it gave credence to the lie he was constructing. "Why did you bring her here instead of walking her home?" 

"Here was closer," Clint said. "And she was still upset. I didn't want her to be alone."

"So you thought you would just sneak her in, and then what? How were you planning to sneak her out again in the morning?"

Clint shrugged. "Hadn't really thought about that. I wasn't really thinking at all. She needed me so I was there. Maybe that's wrong in your book, but where I come from, when one of your friends is hurting, you take care of 'em. Period."

Mr. Sullivan's jaw tightened. "Why didn't you call your uncle for a ride?" he asked Natasha. 

"I just want friend," she said softly. "Uncle is not friend."

"You had to know you were going to get Clint in trouble."

She hung her head. "I did not mean to make trouble for Clint," she said. "Or for you. I am sorry."

"Lay off her," Clint snapped. "She's had a bad enough night without you giving her shit. You want to be pissed at someone, be pissed at me. But don't you think you're being kind of a hypocrite? I mean, you take in kids who got nowhere else to go, take care of 'em like they're your own, but when one of them follows that example and takes care of their friend, even though it's the middle of the night and even though it might get them in trouble, you turn into—" Natasha jabbed him in the side with her elbow and he stopped himself. "I was trying to do the right thing. That's all. I didn't mean to make trouble either."

Mr. Sullivan sighed. "This isn't over," he said. "But right now, you're going to go to bed, and I'm going to take Natasha home. You both need to sleep before school tomorrow."

Natasha nudged him before he could say anything. _It's okay,_ she signed. 

Clint didn't like it, but he nodded. "Sorry," he said again, standing up. He waited for Mr. Sullivan to leave the room to go start the car before hugging Natasha long and hard. _Are you sure you'll be okay?_

_I'll see you in a few hours,_ she told him. _I'll be fine until then._

_Okay._ He held her for a minute longer, trying to let the feeling of her permeate through him, trying to make sure that whatever happened between now and a few hours from now, she would know that he was with her, and that he would always be for her, no matter the time of day or night, no matter what, period.

She took his hand and laced their fingers together, then extended her thumb, first finger, and pinky. He did the same, and they stayed like that for a moment, before Mr. Sullivan came to the doorway and cleared his throat. 

"See you soon," Clint told her. 

"Thank you." She flashed him one last smile, but it was forced and brittle around the edges, and he wanted to pull her back to him, to kiss her and make it real again, but he couldn't. Not in front of Mr. Sullivan, and especially not with the lie he'd told to explain it all away. 

"Go to bed," Mr. Sullivan said. "We'll discuss this tomorrow with Mrs. Sullivan."

Clint went up to his room, but watched out the window until the car was out of sight. He broke his own rule about texting Natasha first, figuring it was safe because she would still be with Mr. Sullivan. It was a simple message, but one he figured might help her through the night:

'<3'


	28. Chapter 28

It was clear from the dark circles under Natasha's eyes that she'd slept as little as he had. In the light of day, he could see faint marks – bruises – that peeked out from under her collar. He reached out but she brushed his hand away and shook her head. 

_Who?_ , he asked. 

_Doesn't matter. Are you in trouble?_

_Probably. I don't know how much yet. We get to have a 'talk' after school._ Clint rolled his eyes. _Was it bad when you got—_ He started to sign 'home', but changed it. _—back?_

_He was asleep._ She grabbed his sleeve and dragged him out of the main flow of students heading into the building, because they were starting to attract attention. _I'm sorry I got you in trouble._

_I'm not. It's their problem if they don't like that I did the right thing. But it **was** the right thing, 'Tasha, and I wouldn't go back and do it any differently if I could._

She looked up at him, and there was something in her eyes, something he couldn't quite read. _None of it?_

_No._ Then he grinned. _Well, I'd remember to turn off the alarm first._

She laughed, and slid her arm through his to go inside, and if people were looking at them and seeing it, she didn't seem to care. Clint knew it wouldn't last, that there would be no open declaration of anything, that there couldn't be, and that was okay. The fact that she was here and safe for the moment, and smiling, was enough.

*

Clint didn't know what had gotten into the Sullivans, but when they finally sat down to have the conversation about how disappointed they were in him for violating their trust and for going out in the middle of the night and bringing a girl back with him, it wasn't as bad as he'd expected. Yes, he was in trouble, but maybe in the end Mr. Sullivan had bought his story, because he seemed inclined to be lenient, even when it was clear that Mrs. Sullivan wanted to read him the riot act and ground him for life.

Instead, he only got a week.

"This can't happen again," Mr. Sullivan said. "We are responsible for you, and if things like this keep happening, if the police turn up on our doorstep again, they might decide that you need to be in more restrictive custody for your own good. You could get sent to another foster home, or a group home, and have to start all over again somewhere else, and I'm pretty sure you don't want that."

"No sir," Clint said. And for a second he wondered what Mr. Sullivan knew. It couldn't be much, or he would have had to report it, right? But what if he _had_ reported it? What if he thought that something was going on and he'd told the authorities and Natasha was in even worse trouble now than before?

Clint could only hope that wasn't the case. He could only hope that Natasha was safe, and that Mr. Sullivan maybe knew a little, but only enough so that he was warning Clint that there was a chance that he might get sent away and not see her again if he wasn't careful. 

"It won't happen again," he promised, even though it might, but he'd be sure not to screw up next time, because everything that he had, and everything that Natasha held on to, depended on it.

*

_I have an idea._ Clint knocked his knuckles against the table, making Natasha look up from the screen she'd been scowling at for ten minutes straight. _I have an idea, but you won't like it._

They'd been trying to get more information about her alleged uncle for weeks, to no avail. They'd dug up a few things, but nothing conclusive, nothing that proved that she wasn't related to him. The problem was that they needed access to Russian government databases, and it turned out that those weren't easy to get into. 

_What?_

_Tony._

Natasha's eyes narrowed. _What about him?_

_Maybe he can help._

_No._ She shook her head. _No, absolutely not. I will not work with him._ She turned back to the screen, stabbing at the keys with her fingers and muttering under her breath something that Clint couldn't understand. He assumed that she was swearing in Russian.

This time he reached out and touched her arm. She tried to ignore him, but he tightened his grip until she looked again. _He knows more about computers than both of us put together,_ Clint pointed out. 

_And he has a big mouth! Tell him anything, and the whole world knows!_ Natasha shook her head again. _No._

_We can't do this alone._ Clint hated to admit it, but he knew it was true. The more time they spent trying – and failing – to get the information that they needed without getting anyone else involved, the longer Natasha was living under her so-called uncle's roof, forced to do things that no one should ever have to, with people who were getting increasingly bold about the marks they left behind. She tried to hide them, but Clint saw, and seethed. 

_'Tasha, listen to me._ He waited for her to turn away from the computer and face him fully, giving him her undivided attention. _We're getting nowhere. He can probably help us, and if he wants to know why, then we lie about it. It worked with Thor, right?_

Natasha snorted. _Tony is smarter than Thor._

_I know. But we can still come up with some kind of cover story. I know that you don't want everyone in your business. I get that, Natasha. I do. But you need to get out of there._ He didn't need to remind her of last week, when there had been one night where neither of them had slept at all because they'd been texting back and forth just to get her through. He didn't need to remind her of the day earlier that week, when they'd landed themselves in detention for skipping class, because when she'd arrived at school that morning she hadn't been able to form any kind of coherent words in any language, and Clint had sat with her and held her until she'd managed to shake the nightmare that had chased her into the day. He didn't need to remind her of the horrors that she was trying to escape. They were all there, just under the surface, and he could see them in her eyes.

_What will we tell him?_

Clint frowned slightly. He hadn't really thought that far. _We'll tell him... No, **I'll** tell him that I want information on your uncle because I'm afraid he's going to kill me if I get too close to you. Tony already thinks we're... together... so he would believe that._

She looked away from him, like she was weighing its merits. _That won't necessarily get us what we want, though._

_Once we start digging, I'm sure I can get him to find what we need,_ Clint told her with more confidence than he felt. 

_One problem,_ Natasha replied. _A lot of the records we need are in Russian. He might be able to run them through a translator, but that's not going to be perfect, and he would have to translate **everything** to try and find the relevant bits._

_So once I get him started, then you can get involved,_ Clint said. _You can tell him how I'm being a complete idiot about all of this, and here, look, you'll prove it._

She still looked skeptical. _He might see right through it._

_He might,_ Clint admitted. _And we might end up having to tell him some of the truth. But not all of it, 'Tasha. All he needs to know is as much as Thor knows – that your uncle is a bad man and that we're trying to get you away from him. I don't think he's going to care about the details. He might be an asshole, but... I mean, his best friend is Bruce, and we know that his life is fucked up too, so..._ He shrugged.

_I still don't like it._

_I know._ Clint took her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and squeezing gently. _But what choice do we have?_

Her jaw tightened and she swallowed hard. _I am sick of having to make choices that aren't choices. I am sick of no matter where I turn hitting a wall. This wasn't how it was supposed to be!_

_It won't be forever,_ Clint promised. He couldn't know for sure, of course, and he hated lying to her, but he had to believe that it was true. Otherwise, what was the point? 

Natasha turned her attention back to the computer, shutting everything down as she got herself under control again. _When?_ she asked finally. _When will you ask him?_

_Tomorrow. Promise._

She nodded, and when Clint offered his arms she sank into them, but there was nothing he could do to soothe away the tension that gripped her. As much as he wanted to be, as hard as he tried, sometimes just being there wasn't enough.


	29. Chapter 29

In the end, they'd decided to tell Tony as close to the truth as they could without giving too much away and risking having Natasha's business all over the school. Apparently it had worked – or maybe Tony just liked the idea of a challenge – and Clint found himself at Tony's house, surrounded by computers and various projects in various states of assembly, staring at the biggest computer monitor he'd ever seen, and it was only one of many.

"So tell me again what we're looking for," Tony said, tapping his fingers against the edge of the desk in what might have been the drum line of a song, or might just have been the rhythm of the drummer that he marched to, a little too fast and slightly off-kilter. 

"We're trying to find information about Natasha's uncle," Clint said. "Because she doesn't remember her mother ever mentioning having a brother, and wouldn't he have come forward after her parents died to claim her then if he'd been around?" Clint shrugged. "He was still in Russia then, or at least she's pretty sure that he was, based on what she's been able to find. But she was really young when her parents died, so maybe she just doesn't remember."

Tony frowned, rocking side to side in his chair as he considered it. "But what's the problem?" he asked. "What does it matter?"

They'd prepared themselves for this question. Telling Tony anything about how her uncle treated her was a last resort. He had to tread lightly. "If, for some reason, it turns out that he's not related to her, then it could put all of her immigration stuff in trouble," Clint said. "She thinks they're already delaying, and she doesn't want to go back to Russia. So she needs to know for sure that it's all how it should be."

"What if it's not?" Tony asked. "What if he's not her uncle?"

"Then we come up with another plan," Clint said. "She's not going back. But we need to know."

"Why would he have taken her if he wasn't, though?" Tony's eyes narrowed as he looked at Clint. "What's _really_ going on?"

"You already said you would help," Clint told him. "Why does it matter?"

"Because what we're – what _I'm_ about to do – isn't exactly legal. And yeah, who cares? It's fun, and educational." Tony smirked. "But it's still illegal, and if I get caught, I at least want to know that it's worth it."

Clint wanted to grab the younger boy by the collar, or maybe the neck, and shake him. Of _course_ it was worth it. Natasha was their _friend_ , wasn't she? And maybe she was more than that to Clint (or maybe she wasn't – after Valentine's Day, they'd mostly fallen back into their old patterns and he really wasn't sure where things stood and he wasn't about to ask with everything else going on). How could he even ask that question?

"She thinks... there's something not right. She thinks that maybe he's into some stuff that's not exactly legal, and she's worried that if he is, and the authorities catch on, that she'll be in trouble. That she might be deported. So... we wanna know, so if it happens we can have a plan in place to make sure that she doesn't. She's staying here." Two truths and a lie. Actually, mostly truth, just not the whole truth. But it told Tony what he needed to know, justified what they were asking him to do, without letting on how tangled up in it Natasha really was.

Tony looked at him for a minute more, then corners of his mouth quirking. "You've got it bad for her, don't you?" It wasn't really a question. "She's got you wrapped around her finger."

"You said you would help." He wasn't even going to try and deny the accusation, because it was true. But it was a position that he'd allowed himself to get into, and it wasn't one he had any intention of giving up. "So are you or not?"

Tony grinned, but turned back to the computer. "What are we looking up?"

They dug through as much information as they could, but eventually they ran into a wall of what appeared to be gibberish to them, but was really just Cyrillic characters. "We're going to need Natasha," Tony said. "There's no way I can put this through a translator fast enough to crack it without getting caught. I mean, I could develop a program, but that's going to take a while, and I've got other things I'm working on. Unless I don't sleep, which I don't usually anyway because it's such a waste of time, but still, it would be easier if we had Natasha here because even if I do manage to work up a program and get through all of this, it's still going to take a while to sort through everything when I don't even know what characters to type in to try and bring up records of her uncle or whatever."

"I'll talk to her," Clint said. "She might not be able to get away for a few days." Her uncle had become stricter about her being home right after school, and she was trying not to rock the boat, trying to stay on his good side, so that he wouldn't become suspicious. 

She said it wasn't hard to act as if he was breaking her down, as if he was winning, when she was there. She said that the minute the door closed behind her, it might has well have been the doors of a jail cell slamming shut and locking behind her. She said this with her back to Clint's chest, his arms around her tight, during lunch one day when they were hiding from the rest of the world for a little while. It was happening more and more often, and it scared the hell out of Clint. Because there was a part of him that worried it wasn't really an act, and that her uncle really was breaking her down. That all of this might be for nothing, because it might all come together too late.

"Tony's working on a program," he told her, "but it would be easier if you were there to help. Can you get away at all?"

Natasha blew out a breath. "Maybe one day. I tell him is for school project. I tell him is important, is due soon. Maybe for few hours I can get away and he not ask too many question." 

"Okay." Clint laced his fingers through hers and she squeezed them tight, hard enough it hurt, but he didn't complain. 

She was as good as her word, and managed to get one afternoon free, as long as she was home by six. They all hoped it would be enough time.

"You keep searching here," Tony said, pointing at one of the screens. "This is what I found so far, but there's a list there of other leads to follow. Just see what you can find out. If you need to save anything, let me know, because I want to make sure that it's secure before you just go clicking around. It's all in English."

Then he turned his attention to Natasha, and it really said something about how invested he was in actually getting done what they'd set out to do that he didn't waste time hitting on her or trying to get a look down the front of her sweater (which was a turtleneck anyway, and wouldn't have been a very productive pastime). They worked quickly and quietly, with Natasha translating and Tony feeding her back what he hoped the system was looking for, for her to translate into Russian and input.

"Got it!" he said finally. "Search away!" 

Clint had something too, but he didn't say anything right away, because he knew that Natasha didn't have much time, and it was more important that she stayed focused on doing the things that neither he nor Tony could do. 

"What am I looking at?" he asked Tony finally. 

"I could tell you," Tony replied, "but then I'd have to kill you."

"Something really, really illegal for me to be looking at, then," Clint said. He'd figured as much, with the information that was coming up on the screen.

"Nah," Tony said. "Just really illegal. Not really really." He grinned and went back to fiddling with whatever it was he was working on while Clint and Natasha were at the computers. 

Natasha gasped, and Clint turned to look at her. There were two pictures up on the screen, and she was staring at them. "What is it?" he asked.

"Мои родители," she murmured. "My parents." She turned and looked at him, her eyes flooded with tears. "I didn't remember their faces."

_I'm sorry._

_Me too._

But she didn't let herself linger, just saved the images and moved on. Clint could hear her sniffling a little every once in a while, but there was no time to waste on comfort and she wouldn't have accepted it from him in front of Tony anyway. 

Clint turned his attention back to his own searching, digging deeper and deeper until he noticed the designations on the forms he was looking at. "Shit. Tony?"

"What?" The younger boy came over and looked at the screen. "Um. Okay. You've officially hit really, really illegal. Back out of there... slowly... and we'll just pretend that never happened."

Clint did as he was told, following Tony's instructions to escape the system that they had inadvertently hacked into. Because he didn't really need the details at this point. It was enough to know that he'd found Natasha's uncle's name on a list of aliases in a file that had been stamped with three letters that might spell disaster, or they might spell salvation: FBI.


	30. Chapter 30

"Curtain is in half an hour. Is everyone ready?" 

"Yes. For the millionth time, Pepper, everyone is ready," Steve said, slightly exasperated but trying to sound soothing. It probably wasn't the millionth time she'd asked, but it was at least the twentieth. "The actors are finishing getting into costume, and –"

"Costumes! Who is in charge of costumes? Who is in charge of Guinevere? She has like eight different costumes and twelve different changes, and someone needs to keep an eye on her because she's losing her voice and they need to make sure that she has tea in between scenes and—"

"Natasha has it under control," Steve reassured her. "Stop worrying. She's got it."

"She wasn't even here for final dress!" Pepper said. "How can she have it under control? She's not even responsible enough to show up for—"

"She's here now," Clint interrupted, because he wasn't going to let Pepper tear his friend down. Not when he knew that she hadn't missed final dress rehearsal because she wanted to, and not when he knew what it had cost her to make sure that she wouldn't miss anything else for the run of the show. 

Or, well, he didn't know, but the fact that she'd looked him straight in the eye and told him not to ask pretty much gave him his answer. When it had first become an issue, he'd tried to tell her that they could find someone else, but she had insisted that she would do it, that she'd been working on the show for months now and she wasn't going to give it up just because of her asshole uncle. 

He hadn't argued. Not when the set of her jaw and the steel in her voice reminded him of the girl that he'd first met, who'd been stubborn and defiant and as strong – stronger – than anyone. Because lately he hadn't seen much of that, and it felt good to have it – to have _her_ back.

"She ain't gonna miss any more shows. Something came up, and she said she was sorry, and she's here now."

"But what if something—" Pepper cut herself off short as she caught Tony trying to sneak by out of the corner of her eye and wheeled on him. " _What_ are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said, all wide-eyed innocence, even as he clutched the box he held to his chest just a little bit tighter. "Just going backstage for a minute."

"You don't need to be backstage," Pepper said. "You should be in the lighting booth, getting ready. There are no lights backstage, and if anything is wrong with the lights, if there is anything the matter at all and you're just waiting until _now_ when the audience is already arriving, I'm going to kill you, because you were supposed to fix everything _last night_ because we don't have time now and if you ruin this for everyone because you are absolutely incapable of being responsible then—" The longer she spoke, the higher her voice rose, and until everyone was looking... and wincing.

"There's nothing wrong with the lights!" Tony shook his head, lowered his voice. "There's nothing wrong with the lights, Pepper. I _did_ fix everything last night, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with the lights."

"Then why do you need to go backstage?" she demanded. "What is in the box?"

"Just... something for the, uh, for the crew," Tony said. "Nothing important. No big deal."

"Hand it to Clint, then, and he'll take it. He actually _belongs_ backstage, what with him being on the stage crew. He'll take it to them."

"I have to deliver it myself," Tony said. "Come on. It'll only take a minute." He flashed Pepper his best smile, and for a second Clint was worried that she would actually fall for it. But there was something in the way the corners of his mouth twitched and his eyes shifted just a little away from her face that tipped her off.

"What's in the box, Tony?"

"I told you, there's nothing—"

" _What_ is in the _box_ , Tony?"

"Shouldn't you be—"

"Clint, take the box." 

"I'm not touching the box!" Did she think he was crazy? And who did she think she was, anyway, giving him orders like she had a right. Although probably the fact that she was the student director did give her the right, but that still didn't make him stupid enough to try to take a box with unknown contents from Tony Stark, unquestionable genius with questionable sanity.

"Steve, take the box."

Steve sighed. "Just give me the box, Tony," he said. "Please."

The staring contest between the two seemed to stretch for an eternity, their faces twitching slightly as they engaged in a silent argument. Finally Tony rolled his eyes and handed it over. "I just thought I would add a little excitement to the battle scene," he said. "It's all perfectly safe and harmless, I swear!"

Steve looked down at the box in alarm, holding it gingerly like it might explode at any second. For all they knew, it might. "Um. Where should I put it?"

"In the garbage," Pepper said. "Back in Tony's car. I don't care, as long as it's anywhere but here! I am _not_ going to let him ruin this show by blowing it up!" 

"I don't have a car," Tony said. "I got a ride."

Pepper growled. "You shouldn't have brought it in the first place. Keep it in the booth with you, and take it home after the show, and if I see you with any mysterious boxes again, I will kill you. If anything - _anything_ \- happens during this show, I will kill you!"

"Nothing is going to happen," Steve said. His chest was rising and falling a little more rapidly than normal, and Clint hoped he had his inhaler on him, because the last thing they needed was the stage manager passing out from lack of oxygen or something. "Come on, Tony. Let's get this put away."

Clint watched them walk away, heading toward the sound and lighting booth where Bruce was already holed up, trying to keep himself well away from the drama, Clint figured. Smart move. He wished he could do the same, but instead he went to find Natasha.

She was in the little lobby area of the musical suite, making sure that all of Guinevere's costumes were ready, in the order she'd need them. The room had been turned into an impromptu dressing room because there was nowhere else close enough to the stage for the actress playing the queen to get to and from fast enough for some of her changes. Thor was also using it, which had cause a little bit of a stir with the idea of a boy and a girl changing clothes in the same place, but they were both too busy actually changing to pay any attention to each other. 

"Everything okay?" Clint asked. 

Natasha looked up and smiled faintly. "As okay as they can be with queen having panic attack," she said. "Will be all right."

"Of course it will. You wouldn't let it be anything else." But he watched as she bent down and stood back up, and wavered on her feet, blinking rapidly. He reached out and caught her arm. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Not enough sleep," she said. "Not enough food. Was just a little dizzy. It pass." 

"I'll be right back," Clint said. He ran through the halls, glad he couldn't hear Pepper's screeching as he brushed by her on his way to the vending machine, dodging other students because school was still going on around them, even as they prepared for their Wednesday matinee for the eighth graders from the middle school, which really was their final final dress rehearsal. They'd all had to get special permission from their teachers to attend. Luckily, most of the time that he was missing was independent study, because a lot of his teachers would have been reluctant to sign off.

There wasn't much choice as far as anything actually nutritious, but nuts had protein, right? And sugar would help her for the moment... He went back to the dressing room and handed Natasha a pack of peanut M&Ms. "Just to get you through." Tomorrow he would have to see about bringing food in to make sure that she got some dinner before the show. They weren't planning on going home in between, just because there was always a chance that her uncle would change his mind. 

"I have to—"

"Just take a minute and eat them," Clint said. "You need to take care of yourself just as much as you need to take care of her." 

Natasha sighed, but sat down on a folding chair and ate the candy and drank the water that he offered. When she was done, she managed another smile. _Thank you._

_You're welcome._

He offered her a hand up, and saw her glance around before she took it, letting herself be pulled just a little too close because there was no one else around... except the door burst open and they quickly let go of each other. "Everyone in the choir room," one of the members of the crew said. "Pre-show meeting."

Clint rolled his eyes, and held the door for Natasha. They went into the choir room, where everyone was gathered, standing shoulder to shoulder as the various adults in charge of the production said their pieces about how proud they were of how hard everyone had worked, etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah. 

Finally they gave the floor over to Pepper, who opened her mouth. Everyone braced themselves for a shrill tirade, but it didn't come. She closed her mouth, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Break a leg, everyone," she said.

A collective sigh of relief went through the room, and they all echoed the words back to her, and to each other.

She headed for the door, going out into the auditorium to witness the result of all of the time everyone had put into the production over the last few months. It was only when she reached it that she turned and offered one last bit of advice: "I don't mean literally. If anyone actually breaks their leg, I'll kill them."


	31. Chapter 31

"A toast!" 

Everyone looked up to see Tony standing on his chair, a glass of soda (probably) raised high above his head. His father – or maybe him pretending to be his father, who knew and who cared? – had rented out the restaurant for the cast and crew to have a party after their last performance, and now he was flagrantly abusing the privilege granted to him by the Stark name to get away with things that no one else could, like leaving footprints on furniture.

"I would like to propose a toast—"

"'To Maureen's noble try!'" some of the cast chimed in, and they probably would have continued if Pepper hadn't shot them a glare.

"Tony, get down from there, you're going to get us all kicked out!" she snapped.

"Ah, there you are!" Tony beamed down at her. "Everyone raise your glasses." He looked around, motioning with the hand not holding his drink, waiting for everyone to hold theirs up. "That's right, that's right. Everyone, raise 'em. Okay. I would like to propose a toast to our amazingly fabulous, always encouraging and/or glaring into submission, puts up with way more than she should ever have to especially from me, organized to the point of being anal-retentive but we love her anyway, student director Pepper Potts! Let's hear it for Pepper!"

Everyone cheered and clinked glasses, and Pepper turned red, the blush spreading from her cheeks to her ears and down her neck. "Thank you, everyone," she said. "Now get down, Tony."

"Only if you promise that you'll... dance with me," he said. 

"There's no dancing, Tony."

"At prom, then! Only if you promise you'll dance with me at prom!"

"Are you drunk?"

Tony looked at his glass like he wasn't quite sure if it was spiked or not. "I don't think so. Why?"

"Get down."

"I'm not drunk."

"Get down anyway."

"Only if you say you'll go to the prom with me."

"You're a sophomore. You can't go to prom."

"I'm Tony Stark, I can do whatever I—"

"Get down. Now."

Tony looked at his glass again like it held all of the answers, shrugged, and got down off the chair. Which didn't mean that he was going to stop hounding Pepper, only that the public portion of the Tony and Pepper Show was done for the evening... or at least the moment.

"Do you think she'll go with him?" Steve asked no one in particular. 

"Sophomores don't get to go to prom unless they're asked by an upperclassman," Bruce pointed out. "And she's not going to ask him."

"She might have to if she ever wants him to stop following her around," Steve said, grinning and laughing his wheezy laugh. 

"What is prom?" Natasha asked, looking at Clint. 

"Dunno," he replied. "Something important to high school girls in movies."

"And in real life," Steve said. "It's a big dance that they have your junior and senior year, usually off school property, and there's food and fancy decorations and everyone makes a really big deal about it. The elect a prom king and queen and—"

"You cannot elect king and queen," Natasha said. "That is not how royalty works."

"It is in America," Steve said, smiling at her. "Girls will campaign for it and everything."

"Why?"

"Because they think it matters," Bruce said. "Because we keep getting told that these are the best years of our lives, and they actually believe it. Because probably for a lot of people these _are_ the best years of their lives."

"That's depressing," Clint said. "Four years trapped in the same building with the same people, learning stuff that you're never going to need to know later on, taking a bunch of tests that don't prove anything but that you memorized some shit that you're just going to forget tomorrow anyway... If that's as good as it gets, then I'm looking forward to adulthood even less than I was."

"It's not like that for everyone," Steve said. "I mean, some people have friends and..." He stopped himself, cleared his throat. "Not that I'm saying that you don't have friends or anything. Obviously you do. We're your friends, after all, and—"

"Don't worry about it," Clint said, trying not to laugh. "I get what you're saying. They're popular. They participate in stuff and it makes them feel important. And they have no responsibilities, not really, and they can just kind of live it up. Their life is like a TV show... and we ain't talking about reality TV."

"Exactly. Although probably there's a lot more going on with most people than we know," Steve said. "I mean, you wouldn't look at me and think I've got any problems, right?"

They avoided looking at each other, and at Steve, because they knew that he was right. When they'd met him, all they saw was a good student, had some medical problems but nothing that kept him down. He wasn't popular, but he wasn't unpopular. And yes, he was a boy scout. An Eagle Scout, to be exact, and he'd even taken a stand there against the organization and their stance on allowing gay members. He was just generally a Good Guy, and who would have known that he'd lost his dad young and was now losing his mom, and they were struggling to get by on her disability money.

"This conversation is depressing," Bruce said. "Shouldn't we be trying to have fun or something?"

"I'm having fun," Clint said. "I'm having fun eating as much as I can, knowing someone else is paying for it." 

Natasha rolled her eyes at him, but any annoyance she might have been trying to convey was undercut when she leaned her shoulder against his for a second. It was as good as a hug from her, when there were other people around. 

"Is going to be strange," she said after a minute. "Now show is over. Now what?" Her tone was light, but Clint couldn't help wondering what she was thinking. The show had been a way for her to escape her uncle for a little while. Now that it was over, how would she get away? Would he crack down on her again, keep her close to home every minute she wasn't at school?

"Me and Tony are working on a science project," Bruce said, sitting up a little straighter. 

"I thought he was banned from doing science on school grounds," Steve said.

"He is. He has his own lab. Workshop. Whatever you want to call it. If we can get it figured out, we're going to enter it into this state competition, and if it wins there, it could go on to the national level."

"What is it?" Steve made the mistake of asking, and then Bruce was off and talking in terms that none of them understood, but Steve made a good show of smiling and nodding and pretending to be interested. Or maybe he really was interested, since he seemed to be asking the right questions to keep Bruce going.

"Is too bad there is no dancing," Natasha said, leaning in to Clint again. 

"Do you dance?" he asked. 

"Yes. So do you."

Clint laughed. "Uh, no."

"'Uh, yes,'" she replied, mimicking him. "I remember. You dance with me."

"That wasn't really dancing," he said. He could feel the flush in his cheeks. It seemed so long ago, but it wasn't, really. Two months, maybe. Almost exactly two months, actually, if he remembered right. Two months since she'd told him. Two months, and what had they done to stop it all? 

"Don't frown," she said. "Why you frown?"

"I was just thinking about—"

"Don't. Don't think. Not now. Not when all this ends too—"

Soon, he assumed was the last word of the sentence, but she never got to say it, because her phone started buzzing and when she looked at the screen she swallowed hard. "I have to go."

Clint glanced at Steve and Bruce but they weren't paying attention. _Right now?_

Natasha nodded and stood up. Clint did too.

"Where are you going?" Steve asked.

"I have to go home," Natasha said, and she could have been one of the stars of the show, for how much she made it sound like it was no big deal. "See you tomorrow."

They looked a little bewildered at why she was leaving so early, but they didn't ask questions. Clint didn't like the way Bruce watched them, though, and he put a hand on Natasha's back as they went to retrieve her coat. 

_Is he here now?_

_No. Just asking where I am._

_Do you have a ride?_

_I have money for a cab. Stay here. Just... act normal. If I go home when he says, it won't be a problem._

_You said you'd never lie to me,_ Clint replied.

 _I'm not lying._ She slid her arms into her sleeves and tugged up the zipper, a little too intent on the task. _I hope I'm not lying._

Clint sighed. _I hate this._

 _Not more than I do._ But there was no anger in her face, and he almost wished there was. Wouldn't it be better if she was pissed off? _I have to go,_ she repeated.

_Text me later._

_I will._ She glanced around, making sure no one was there to witness, then pushed up on her toes to kiss him lightly. 

And then she was gone, before he even had a chance to put his arms around her. But he was sure that had been on purpose, because he knew that she knew he wouldn't have let go.


	32. Chapter 32

"Hey, Barton. Can I, uh, can I talk to you? For a second?"

Clint looked up from the flat he'd been deconstructing and saw Bruce standing there, a folder in his hands that he was gripping so tight it was starting to bend. "What?" he asked, then processed what he'd heard, or thought he'd heard, and said, "Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"Um. Maybe... not here?" Bruce's eyes flicked to the sides, taking in the other members of the crew that surrounded them. No one seemed to be paying them any attention; they were all too busy with their own tasks and conversations.

"I'm kind of busy," Clint said. "No one's gonna hear you over the sounds of power tools anyway." Including possibly him, he realized, so maybe they should step away. But what could Banner have to say to him that couldn't be said where it might be overheard?

"Uh, okay," Bruce said, crouching down next to him and fiddling with one of the wheels that was still attached to the moving platform. "Um. It's about Natasha."

At that Clint looked up sharply. "What about her?"

"Just... where is she?"

Clint wished he knew. She hadn't shown up for school that day, and while he assumed that she was home, he had no idea what that meant. Maybe she'd just been tired; she wouldn't be the only one who skipped out of school today. Most of the cast was missing, and a lot of the crew, but the Sullivans were having none of it, so he was here. Not that he would have even considered skipping if it meant not seeing his best friend.

She hadn't said anything about being absent when she'd texted him the night before, but then she hadn't said much at all. Just that she'd gotten home safe, and then good night a while later. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that made him worry more than usual.

Should he have? What did Bruce know that he didn't? 

Nothing, he told himself. There was no way.

"Home. Lots of people ain't here today."

"What about the other day? Final dress. She missed that, too."

"So? What's your point? Because seriously, Banner, I got shit I gotta get done here and if you got a point it'd be nice if you made it."

Bruce sighed, rubbed his neck, and shoved the folder at him. "Just give this to her."

"What is it?"

"Just give it to her. It might... help."

Clint flipped open the folder. It held a stack of papers. On the top sheet, in the upper right in big letters it said: **I-589, Application for Asylum and for Withholding of Removal**.

He tensed. What was Bruce doing? What did he know? The urge to put him up against a wall and demand answers was so strong it made him twitch, but he remembered how the seemingly mild-mannered kid had yanked him off of Tony after the trust exercise incident, and how he'd been in a psych ward because he'd almost killed a kid with his bare hands not so long ago. "What is this?"

Bruce squirmed, swallowed hard enough Clint could see his adam's apple bob. "Tony said that she was looking for information about her uncle. That she was worried that he was up to, to no good and that she could get in trouble, too. Like... deported trouble. I thought, maybe..." He gestured to the folder.

He made a mental note to kill Tony. Or warn Tony that Natasha was going to kill him. Either way, he was dead. Because they'd trusted him. He'd _told_ Natasha that they could trust him, and then Tony'd gone and done exactly what Natasha had been afraid of in the first place. He'd gone and blabbed it to someone else. Maybe it was just Bruce, and maybe he thought that Bruce didn't count because Bruce was his best friend and they didn't keep secrets or whatever bullshit excuse he would come up with, but they'd _trusted_ him and he'd betrayed that and you didn't just get away with that. 

Especially not when Natasha's life might depend on it.

"It's an application for refugee status. It would let her stay in the country, even if her uncle gets himself in trouble. At least, I think it would. It would be worth trying, anyway."

"She's only fifteen," Clint said. 

"I know. I looked into that. Minors can apply for refugee status unaccompanied. They don't have to have a parent do it or anything. He wouldn't even have to know." Bruce's eyes were intent on his face, a look more direct than Clint was used to receiving from him. 

"Why are you giving it to me?" he asked.

"Because she might take it from you. I don't know if she would from anyone else." Bruce shrugged, looking a little sheepish. "It's... pretty obvious how it is with you two."

"Oh yeah? How do you think it is?" Clint demanded. 

"Just... you're friends. Good friends. Best friends." He shrugged again. "You look out for each other. Like you asking Tony for help for her. She never would do it on her own. She hates him. But you knew she needed it and so you got it done. And she went along with it."

It was true enough, and maybe they weren't really fooling anyone. Not that they were trying to, exactly. Natasha had as much as said that there was something more than just friendship between them back at Tony's New Year's party, even though it hadn't been true. Wasn't true? 

He didn't even know. 

"I'll give it to her."

"Okay." Bruce stood up, brushing sawdust from the knees of his pants. He started to walk away.

"Banner?"

He turned around to look at Clint.

"Thanks."

*

"I'm going to kill him," Natasha snapped when Clint slid the folder over to her at the coffee shop the next day. They were supposed to be working on their independent study, but as far as Clint was concerned, this was just as educational and more important. They were learning about government or... something. "I am going to hunt him and kill him. He promised. _You_ promised!"

"I know, but 'Tasha, look. Just look at it." Maybe he should have lied to her, said he'd found it on his own. She might have believed him; she seemed to think he was a lot smarter than most people gave him credit for. Or maybe he could have said that Tony had given it to him. But no, he'd told her about Bruce, and now he just had to be glad that her eyes didn't contain laser beams or he'd have two holes burned right through him with the way she was glaring.

"I don't want whole world to know my business!" 

"Then maybe you should stop shouting," Clint pointed out.

Her hand came up, and Clint was glad he had good reflexes because it was all that kept him from getting slapped, or maybe punched. He caught her arm and held it, not squeezing but with enough force that she couldn't pull free until he relaxed his grip, and he only did that when the tension in her eased. 

_'Tasha._ She wasn't looking. Pointedly. So he waited until she finally looked, because sometimes (not often) he could out-stubborn her. _The whole world doesn't know your business. You told Thor, and we told Tony. Tony told Bruce. That's all, and they don't even know that much. Don't panic. Just look. It's something, isn't it? It's a start._

She glared at him again, but at least she took the pages from the folder and scanned through them. "Won't work," she said.

"Why not?"

She shoved the papers at him, stabbing her finger at the page. "It wants to know if ever I was hurt in Russia, if ever I was prosec... no, persecuted. Russia is not problem. This is for if there is danger for you to go home. I can go back." Her forehead furrowed, and it made her look younger and older all at the same time. _I just don't want to. I want to stay here. I have a right to stay here, don't I?_

_You're not getting sent away. If this isn't it, then we'll find something else. We'll go to the library, look it up online. There has to be **something**._

_What if there isn't?_

_Then we'll make one. Come on._

Natasha stuffed the pages back into the folder and handed it back to Clint. He cocked his head, and she grimaced. _In case he goes through my stuff. He can't know._

_Would he?_

_Come on._

Her lack of answer was all the answer he needed. Whatever they did, any paper trail they left behind had to be in his hands, and on his head.


	33. Chapter 33

'Are they asleep?'

Clint frowned at the message, and immediately went to his window to see if Natasha was standing out on the lawn. It had been awhile since she'd just turned up like that, but then it had also been winter, and too cold to be wandering around late at night. Now the weather was warmer, and maybe she'd managed to get away from her uncle and decided to come see him. It was early for that, though.

In any case, he didn't see her. 'Who? The Sullivans?'

'Who else?'

'Dunno. Think so. Why?'

'Sneak out. You know where to find me.'

She meant the cemetery. At least, he hoped she meant the cemetery, because if she didn't, then he really _didn't_ know where to find her. He wasn't sure why she was being so cryptic. It wasn't like her uncle was going to see the messages; she deleted everything immediately after receiving it, and he wasn't even listed under his own name on her phone.

It's only paranoia if they're not really out to get you.

'Okay. Be there soon.'

After Valentine's Day, his foster parents had changed the code for the doors and hadn't given him the new one. It didn't surprise him, but it also didn't deter him. He'd already figured out how to rig the bathroom window so that it could be opened and closed even when the alarm was on without setting it off. Not great for home security, but who the hell was going to think to check a random small window on the second floor?

He made his way quickly through the streets, more populated than usual since it was Saturday night and actually above freezing, and still at least kind of early. He found her in the little shed. It was cold, but there was no fire lit. He wasn't sure there was any wood left to light one with, and maybe they should fix that. But maybe soon they wouldn't need to. Maybe soon this would all be over.

She unwound herself from the blanket she was wrapped in, allowing him to join her underneath it and burrowing against his side. He slid his arm around her shoulders and held her, stroking her arm lightly and letting her have the moment, however long she needed, to tell him why she needed him here right now.

Or maybe there was no explanation. Maybe she just did.

After a few minutes, a few deep breaths, she switched on a battery-powered lantern to give them more light and straightened up, angling her body to face him. _I was right._

_About what?_

_There are other girls._

Shit. Clint didn't know if that was good or bad. On the one hand, it meant there was more of a case, right? When they took it to the authorities, there was more of a case. More voices to back Natasha's up. But it also meant that there were other girls going through what she was, and that was bad. That was really fucking bad, and a flash of anger took root and knotted in his gut.

_How do you know?_ , he asked.

_I heard them talking. The men, not the girls. Then I met one of them. The girls. Yelena._ She spelled the name out for him. _She's older than me, but she speaks no English, or almost none. She doesn't go to school, she doesn't have anyone. And she says there are more. Some younger than me._

He wanted to be sick. Thinking about it – trying _not_ to think about it – was enough to turn anyone's stomach... or almost anyone's, he guessed, because obviously if they brought girls here that young, there was market for them.

A market. Supply and demand. It was the most fucked up economics lesson ever.

_So what are we going to do?_

_I don't know,_ Natasha admitted. 

_Will they talk? If we took it to the police, will they talk?_

_I don't know,_ she repeated, then shook her head. _Probably not. They would be too scared of being sent back. No one wants to go back._

_Did you ask her? Yelena?_ His fingers stumbled over the unfamiliar name. 

Natasha shook her head again. _If I ask, she might say something to someone about it, and then..._ She didn't need to finish the sentence. If her uncle, or anyone else, had any idea that she was thinking about turning them in, about going to the police with what had been happening to her, what was _still_ happening to her, there was a very good chance that she would disappear. Maybe dead, maybe just... gone, with no chance of ever getting out.

_But maybe if the police start investigating, they'll find her. Maybe then she'll say something. If they tell her she can stay in the country if she cooperates..._

Because that was what they were putting their faith in now, as far as immigration went. Natasha didn't qualify as a refugee; there was no chance of asylum. Currently, all of her papers had her here legally, but she couldn't trust that that would hold up when it was proven that her uncle was not, in fact, related to her. And they had stacks of evidence now that he wasn't. 

But victims of crimes could get a visa to stay in the country if they were assisting the authorities with an investigation. If nothing else, it would buy her time. And would they really send a minor, an orphan, back to the country she'd come from after she was brought here under false pretenses and abused? Could they do that?

Natasha didn't respond. She stared at the knee of her jeans, picking at a worn spot until it started to fray, making a tiny hole. Clint reached out and took her hand before she could turn it into a bigger hole, squeezing it and bringing it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. 

"Don't," she whispered. "Don't do that."

He started to let go, but she kept hold of his hand, and he wished he could tell her to make up her mind, but it wasn't that easy, was it? With her there was always a push and pull, and he didn't imagine it was actually any different in her head. What she wanted and what she would let herself have were at odds more often than not, or at least it seemed that way. 

"What if I can't do it?" she asked.

"Can't do what?"

"Bring him down. Bring it all down. Is... Clint, is so much bigger than you know. I shouldn't ask you here, shouldn't go anywhere near you. People see you with me, you are target. I want for you to be safe. I need this. But being near me is not safe."

"I don't need you to keep me safe, 'Tasha," he told her. "You told me to stay away from where you live and I did. I mean, I do. Now. Right? So they won't see me. Unless they're following you—"

"Maybe they are. You see? Maybe they are follow. Maybe they see all I do, hear all I say. Maybe someone watching right now. I don't know." She held his hand tighter, her grip tight enough to grind bone on bone. 

"If they saw everything, heard everything, they'd've done something by now to stop you," Clint said. "Okay?" He didn't know it was true, but if they knew she was plotting against them, it would make sense they'd try to stop her sooner rather than later.

"Maybe. But what if I tell police, and they are in police pocket? What if police tell them, 'Oh yes, your Natalia, she is saying very bad things about you. Things maybe people will believe and you will be in very bad trouble."

"So we don't tell the police," Clint said. "We go above the police."

"To where? Who is above police?"

"The FBI," Clint said. "I found a file about your uncle when we were searching at Tony's house that day. A file from the FBI. They're investigating him. There's a whole list of fake names, aliases he's used."

Her eyes went wide. "Why you did not tell me?"

"I thought I did," he admitted. "I told you about the information I found."

"Yes, but you not say is part of investigation. You not say that maybe there is chance someone is already seeing what he does and is look for way to stop him."

"Sorry," Clint said. "But... yeah. If you think maybe the cops here are just gonna let him get away with it, then we don't start there. There has to be some kind of... tip line or something, right? I mean, can you just call the FBI?"

"How I should know?" Natasha asked. 

"So we'll look. We'll figure it out. We've got all week, right?" Spring break. He tried to ignore the fact that that meant an entire week that she had no real excuse to leave the house. They hadn't talked about it, what it might mean, because both of them knew. What was there to say anymore?

Well, he could think of a few words, but they weren't ones she could hear. Not now. Maybe not ever, but he could hope that once all of this was done, maybe then... But it was better not to think too much about it. Just take it one day at a time, like his shrink said. Except now it felt like one hour at a time, one minute, and every one could be the last.

Although he knew that there was no way she could actually hear his thoughts, Clint figured maybe hers were going the same place, because Natasha switched off the lantern and tucked herself back against him in the dark.


	34. Chapter 34

When his phone buzzed and jerked him awake, it was a relief. It had been four days since he'd seen Natasha, two since he'd spoken to her, and the last text he'd gotten was yesterday morning. He hadn't slept well in a long time, but the longer he went not knowing, the worse the nightmares became. 

They weren't always about her, except that they were, even if she never showed up in them. Because what else was he afraid of losing? What else would he go running after through fire or endless darkness? What else would he try to cross a raging river for? What else would he face down monsters for? 

Not his parents. Not Barney.

Just her.

But he could never get to her. He could never save her. She was always just out of reach, and sometimes she was begging for him and sometimes she was just watching him, disappointed, so disappointed that he couldn't be who he'd promised her he would be. 

At least when he was awake he could _try_ to think about something else, even if he failed most of the time. 

He reached for his hearing aids and put one in, tucking the phone between his head and the pillow. The other he left out so that no other sound could distract him. "Hey."

At first he didn't hear anything. "'Tasha?"

Still nothing, and a cold feeling swept through him, like he'd swallowed a tray of ice cubes and they'd melted fast and went straight through his veins. "'Tasha, if you're saying anything, I can't hear you. Do you just need me to talk?"

Finally there was a muffled sound, but it took him a few seconds to parse what it was: crying. Sobbing, really. Ragged and muffled like she was trying to hold it in, punctuated by hiccupping gasps and suppressed moans. 

"'Tasha, where are you?" He sat up, reaching for the lamp so he didn't have to fumble around in the dark for his clothes. "Natasha, please."

"стенной шкаф."

"I don't think that was English," he said. "Try again."

"I-In my closet," she finally managed, which stopped Clint dead, one hand extended and hanging in mid-air, baffled.

"In your closet?"

" _Da._ "

"Why are you in your closet?" 

More tears, and he waited, his fingers clenched in the material of his jeans. If she was at her uncle's, there wasn't anything he could do. He couldn't get to her there. Not without breaking the rule she'd set, the rule that was in place to keep both of them safe. But could he really just sit here? 

"Please, 'Tash, I need you to talk to me. If you can. You're..." _Scaring me._ But he couldn't make himself say it, not because it wasn't true, but because she didn't need that on her. She didn't need to feel responsible for anything outside of herself right now. Right? She had enough going on without having to worry about him. Right? 

"I h-hide so he can't hear," she said finally. 

"Did something happen?" Stupid question. Something was always happening. "Are you hurt?" Only slightly less stupid, and what was the right question to be asking right now? What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to fix it? "How can I help?"

Silence. 

If she'd been found, he would have heard something, wouldn't he? There would have been yelling, wouldn't there? She would have made some sound, or she would have hung up. She wouldn't just disappear.

The phone was still connected and there was no sound. Not even breathing, unless maybe he just couldn't hear it, and damn his fucking ears and the hearing aids that didn't help enough and the asshole who'd blown up the circus and cost him his hearing in the first place and damn Natasha's uncle and damn her too because if she wasn't so _her_ , if she hadn't stepped into his life and somehow become _his_ and made him _hers_ he wouldn't have to deal with this shit.

"I can't do this anymore, Clint."

"Don't say that." 

"I can't."

"Don't say that. You can. Not for much longer. We're going to get it figured out soon, and then it'll be over. I promise. I _promise_ , 'Tasha."

"It will never be over."

"Natasha, stop. I know it's bad right now. Maybe it's worse tonight than before. Maybe tonight is the worst night of your life, but tomorrow... tomorrow will be better. I promise. I'm going to make it better."

"How?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I will. So you have to make it through tonight to see. Okay? Can you do that?"

Silence again, and then a thump. The line went dead.

"NO!" Clint shouted at the phone. "DAMN IT! YOU CAN'T DO THAT!"

He drew back his arm, then realized that if he smashed the phone, he wouldn't get another one, and what if she tried to call again?

So what? So what if she tried to call again? He didn't care. He was done caring. He didn't care about her or anything because caring _sucked_.

Literally. It sucked the life out of you and left you with nothing and why not just smash the damn phone?

He put it in the drawer where he kept his laptop and slammed it shut. He tried to take deep breaths, tried to let the rage that filled him, filled every crack and crevice, every vein and artery and capillary until it was all he was, go, but it was no good.

So he let it out instead.

He had no idea how long it took for the Sullivans to get to him, only that he did a lot of damage before Mr. Sullivan finally pinned him down, face first on his bed so he could barely breathe, his arms twisted up behind his back. Probably not DSS-approved technique, but Clint wasn't exactly in a position to complain.

"Are you done?" Mr. Sullivan demanded. 

"Yes," Clint said, when he knew all the fight was gone. "Yes sir."

So Mr. Sullivan let him up, while Mrs. Sullivan got the other boys back into their rooms and beds. "Care to explain what happened?"

"I can't."

"You can't, or you won't?"

Both. Neither. "I just... got angry. I had a bad dream and I woke up pissed off and I couldn't shake it and I'm sorry. I'll fix it." Because there were holes in the walls in more than one place. At least he hadn't shattered the mirror.

"What you can't fix, you'll pay for," Mr. Sullivan said. "I'll schedule an appointment with your counselor tomorrow."

Clint didn't even argue. There wasn't anything he could say to her about it, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd made a promise, and no matter how angry it made him to love someone who made him feel this helpless so often, he was going to keep it.

Which is why the next morning, after an interminably long hour with his psychologist, he called Steve. "I need a favor."

"Sure. Anything."

"It's an art thing. You know that picture? That famous one with the woman flexing that says 'You can do it'?"

"Rosie the Riveter, yeah. What about it?"

"Can you draw me something like that? Except of Natasha."

"Oh sure!" He could hear Steve smiling. "When do you need it for?"

"Uh... today?"

Steve laughed. "I'll see what I can do, okay? Like, how detailed do you want it?"

"Just... something. With her face. And those words. That's all. As soon as possible."

And now the smiles and laughter were gone. "What's going on, Clint?"

"I can't tell you," he said. 

"Does this have to do with her uncle?"

"I can't tell you. Please, Steve. Just... trust me. Please."

It was obvious Steve didn't want to let it go, but thankfully he did. "I'll get it done. Don't... try not to worry, okay? I'll get it done."


	35. Chapter 35

Tuesday morning Clint waited on the front steps of the school, holding two cups of coffee, his stomach in knots. She had to be here today. Today, of all days, she had to be here. It was her birthday, and she couldn't be stuck with her uncle for that. She _had_ to be here, and if she wasn't, then he was going to find her, because there was no way he was going to let anything happen to her today.

He saw a flash of red, and his heart unclenched, knocking hard against his ribcage. He lost track of her in the stream of students as he bent down to set the coffee on the ground, because he didn't care who saw right now, he needed to touch her, to know she was whole and, well, not unharmed but at least not broken, not like that night when she'd called, on the edge and ready to give up, and he'd talked her down but for how long? When he straightened her arms were around him, the force of her impact against him enough to knock him back a step.

He laughed, more a sound of surprise than anything, and folded his arms around her, remembering all of a sudden how small she was. But not weak. Not at all weak, as his protesting ribs reminded him. "Hey you," he murmured against her ear. "Happy birthday."

Natasha looked up at him sharply, nearly knocking her head against his chin in the process. "How you know is my birthday?"

"You told me once?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I not tell you."

"Okay, I cheated and saw it on your birth certificate. When we were looking up all the stuff we needed," he admitted, smiling at her.

She wiggled out of his arms, scowling. "Is in Russian."

"Google translate."

She crossed her arms. "Is not your business."

"Aw, don't be mad," he said. "You're my best friend. I should know when your birthday is."

"You could have asked."

"And you wouldn't have told me. Would you?"

Her gaze slid sideways. "No," she admitted.

"Happy birthday, Natasha. Your present is inside."

Her scowl deepened, etching lines between her eyebrows. "You should not—"

"You already know what it is," he told her. "You've already seen it. Just... come on. Please? Let me do this for you." 

"When is your birthday?" she asked. "You not tell me either."

"It was before we met," he told her. "October 24. Okay? Now will you let me show you your present that you've already seen?"

"Fine," she said, trying to still sound angry but Clint wasn't buying it. She didn't want a fuss made, fine. He could understand that. But he wasn't making a fuss. Not really. He just wanted her to have something good today, on a day that should be happy, because there were no guarantees it wouldn't all go to hell the minute she left school.

He looked down at where he'd set the coffee and discovered he'd kicked one over when she'd crashed into them. "Aw, coffee, no," he said, looking at the puddle that was slowly dripping into the grass that was only just turning green again. 

Natasha looked at him, the consternation and disappointment in his face, and the corner of her mouth curled up. "We can share," she said, picking up the other cup. "Is okay. Show me."

So he took her to his locker and showed her the original of the Natasha the Riveter that Steve had drawn for her. It was better in person than in the camera phone image he'd sent to her that day that he'd promised he would make better. She'd only sent one text since that night, right after he sent the picture: 'Thank you.'

But now her eyes filled with tears that she hastily scrubbed away with the back of her hand. "I can't keep it," she said. "You have to keep it for me. Until is safe."

"Okay." He didn't ask when that would be, because it wasn't something she could answer. Even if she told the police, or the FBI, how long would it take for them to do something? What if they didn't do anything at all? What would happen then?

Clint forced the thoughts out of his head. Today wasn't about that. Today was just about Natasha, and the fact that she was back, and it was her birthday, and he was going to make it good. (Even though everyone else had come back from the break yesterday, she hadn't, and the looks everyone had given him – Steve, Thor, Tony, Bruce – had been so concerned he'd wanted to tell them all to shut the fuck up even though they hadn't said a word.)

"Can I walk you to class?" 

"Oh, you ask now?" But her tone was teasing, and she waited for him to get his books sorted out before making her way to her first class. She hesitated at the door, like she wanted to say something, but eventually she just turned and walked into the classroom.

They both had passes for Mr. Coulson during their lunch, and they weren't surprised when the rest of the group was there as well. They _were_ surprised, however, when the social worker brought in pizza and cake. "I know we've probably missed some birthdays along the way, so you can consider this for all of you. But happy birthday, Natasha."

For a second Clint thought she was going to yell, going to tell him that she didn't want this, but instead she just pressed herself back against him and said, "Thank you."

Mr. Coulson didn't try to make them talk about anything; he just let them have fun, only putting on the Voice of Authority when they started to get too loud, as one conversation competed for dominance over another, and Tony's voice ratcheted up because of course he had to win. 

"It's not so bad, is it?" Clint asked Natasha. She hadn't said much the entire time, preferring to stay close to him (and he wasn't going to complain) and stay out of the fray. He'd given up on following what anyone was saying, because it was just too much to process. 

"No. Is not so bad." She looked at him, and again it seemed like there was something she wanted to say, but the words didn't come out, and finally the period was over and they had to go back to class.

Clint didn't see her again until their independent study period. He was about to ask her where she wanted to go when she grabbed his hand and started pulling him through the halls. He found himself outside of the social worker's office again, his fingers aching from the pressure of hers. 

He wasn't sure there were names for everything in her eyes right now, as she looked at the door, then at him, then back at the door. Determination. Fear. Uncertainty. She looked up at him again. "I'm going to tell him." But it came out almost like a question.

Was he supposed to answer? Was he supposed to tell her yes, tell him, put it in someone else's hands finally? Or was he supposed to talk her out of it? Because you couldn't trust authorities, you couldn't trust adults, because they had ways that they had to do things, or thought they had to do them, and they weren't always the right way. 

But they needed someone to help them. They had hit a point where they weren't going to be able to finish this alone, because there were things that they couldn't do for themselves. They were just kids, after all. Kids who had seen too much, knew too much about the dark side of life, but kids anyway.

And if they could trust anyone, if they had to trust anyone, then Mr. Coulson was probably the place to start. 

"I'm right here with you," Clint told her. "If you want me to be."

Their eyes locked, and everything else dropped away. The entire world just disappeared and it was her and him and a decision that would change everything forever.

She opened the door and they went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the line, "Aw coffee, no," goes to Matt Fraction, as I shamelessly stole it from the Hawkeye comic book. Which if you're not reading it, you should be. It's awesome.
> 
> Also, it's nice to be able to post a happy (or at least happier) chapter for once, especially in light of what happened in Boston in Monday. I went to college in Boston, and I know exactly where the finish line for the marathon is. I walked through that area of the city probably once a week. I still consider that city my home, more than anywhere else, although I haven't lived there in 10 years. Everyone I know who is still in the city is fine, but I'm still shaken and numb and struggling to cope. Which is not a plea for sympathy, just... that's where I am. And it's nice to have a little light in the darkness, even if it's via fictional characters trapped in their own dark places.


	36. Chapter 36

"Did we have a meeting today?" Mr. Coulson asked when they walked in. He looked at his watch, then at his calendar. "I didn't think we had one until the end of next week."

"We don't," Clint said. "We just... need to talk to you."

"About the independent study, or...?" He looked at them expectantly. 

"No. Not about that. About..." But it wasn't Clint's place to say. This was Natasha's story, and it needed to be in her words and on her terms. The trouble was, she wasn't saying anything. "About something else."

"If you have time," Natasha said. "If you don't have time, we can—"

"I have time," the social worker said. "Why don't we go in here?" He gestured to the room where they had the group meetings, which had a door that shut and kept prying eyes out, unlike his office which had windows that allowed people to see who was in there unless the shades were drawn.

Clint sat first, and Natasha sat next to him, a foot or so away. Her back was straight and her head up, her hands folded tightly in her lap, but then she unfolded them and laid them flat on her legs. He could see the tension in her fingers and her wrists where she pressed down to keep them from shaking. 

Never show weakness. That was a rule that they both knew all too well, and he sometimes he wished they could unlearn it, because seeing her like this, the muscles in her neck and jaw clenched, the way she swallowed and didn't blink... he knew what was going on. And what was so wrong with being weak – no, not even weak, she _wasn't_ weak, had never _been_ weak and would never _be_ weak – vulnerable anyway? 

But he couldn't give comfort that she wouldn't allow, so he was just there if she needed him, just like he said he would be. 

Mr. Coulson looked from Natasha to Clint and back again. "What's going on?"

Silence. Only the too fast in-and-out of Natasha's breathing, and finally Clint couldn't take it anymore and reached out, laid his hand on her back, between her shoulder blades where he could feel her heart pounding. She looked at him. _It's okay, 'Tasha._

_This is a mistake._

_We won't know until we try. Maybe he can help._ She'd told him that once, about this man, and she'd been right. And maybe she was right again, but there was a chance that she wasn't. 

_I can't tell him everything. I can't._

_So don't. Just—"_

"Guys?" Mr. Coulson was looking back and forth between them, having no idea what was being said.

_Just tell him enough._

"If I'm going to help you, I'm going to need you to actually say words. Out loud. In a language I can understand."

_I don't know where to start._

_Just start with what you need him to do. He can ask the questions from there._

_Okay,_ she signed, then forced herself to speak out loud. "Okay." She looked at Clint, then down, finding his hand and lacing their fingers together before looking back at the social worker. "I need you to call FBI."

Mr. Coulson didn't quite manage to hide his surprise at the request. "What's going on, Natasha?"

"Bad things. Things... things that will make a lot of trouble if authority find out. Things I..." She swallowed, shrugged. 

"What kind—" He stopped himself. "Are these things happening to you, Natasha?"

Her hesitation was answer enough. "I know you will say you have to report anything I say, if I say something is happening to me. You will have to tell authority. But... is why you need to call FBI. They are only authority you should tell."

"Why?" Mr. Coulson asked. "Why the FBI?"

"Because local police, I do not trust. Maybe they are paid off to see nothing, hear nothing. Maybe if report come in that girl at Shield High School say something bad happen to her, maybe they tell someone who tell my uncle and then it could be much worse."

"Paid off? You sound like you're talking about the mob here," the social worker said, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice.

"Yes, exactly. Russian mob. Organized crime. That is what my uncle is in. Only he is not my uncle. I don't have any uncle. He bring me here as part of things he do, and I am afraid if he gets caught doing these things, any of these things, then I will get sent back. If all of my papers, they say they are false, then where else I am going to go?"

"What am I supposed to say?" he asked. "What am I supposed to tell them?"

"Tell him that you have someone who has information about criminal activity," Natasha said. "Tell them that you don't have any detail because the more people who know, the more chance for it to get out and information to be lost. Tell them—"

"Maybe I should just call them now," Mr. Coulson said. "Then you can tell them yourself."

Clint felt her tense, and thought she would refuse, but she nodded. "Okay."

"You know that by doing this, you may be putting yourself in danger," Mr. Coulson said.

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I am already in danger. But I know, maybe this will make worse. This is still a thing I have to do." 

"I'll be right back then." He went back into his office, to his computer, shutting the door behind him.

Natasha sagged back against Clint, and he wrapped his arms around her. Her head dropped against his shoulder. He turned and kissed her forehead. _Is this really happening? Right now?_ , she asked.

_Seems like it._

"Shit."

He laughed. He couldn't help it. Nerves and relief, or the possibility of relief, maybe. Hope. He breathed her in and held her tighter, until the door opened again and she straightened. Mr. Coulson dialed, and they all waited, barely breathing, as he spoke to someone, who transferred him to someone else, who transferred him again.

"What's your uncle's name?" Mr. Coulson asked. "I don't have your file." 

"Is fake name. Real name is Aleksander Nebakov."

Mr. Coulson repeated it, and it was as if he had given some kind of password, because a second later, he handed the phone over to Natasha. "He wants to speak to you."

A minute later, she asked them to leave the room. _Yes, even you,_ she told Clint, and so he went. They both watched the clock, and it was 28 minutes exactly before she poked her head out. "He wants to talk to you again." She handed the phone back to Mr. Coulson.

Clint looked at her, and she nodded, so he went back into the room. _What happens now?_

_He's going to come talk to me. Not looking like an FBI agent, he says, and during school so there's no reason for my uncle to know about it. He's telling Mr. Coulson right now not to tell anyone, that they will handle everything._

_When?_

_Soon. This week, maybe next._

Mr. Coulson came in without the phone and looked at her, frowning. "I'm under strict orders not to ask you for any details, but Natasha, if someone is hurting you, you can't go back there."

"I can, and I will. Is not for much longer. I am stronger than you think."

"I don't doubt that you're strong, but—"

"If my uncle knows – even suspects – anything before is all over, it could be my life. I want my life, Mr. Coulson. Everything else..." She shrugged. 

He shook his head, but there was nothing that he could do. "Keep yourself safe," he said.

"Don't worry," she said, and actually smiled. "Is going to be okay."

Mr. Coulson watched her leave, but caught Clint before he could follow. "How long have you known?" he asked. 

Clint shrugged. "Too long."

"Just... look out for her. If you can."

He couldn't help it. He rolled his eyes. "With all due respect, sir – I never stopped."

He caught up with Natasha, and because the halls were empty, slid his arm around her waist. "So... did it end up being a happy birthday?"

She looked up at him and smiled. Smirked, really. "Not yet." Her hand slid up to the back of his neck, pulling him down, and she kissed him. "Now it is."


	37. Chapter 37

The worst part was the waiting. Mr. Coulson had made the call on Tuesday, and the FBI agent showed up on Friday, mid-morning. Clint only knew because the social worker came to find Natasha in between classes, catching her in the hall. He didn't say a word, just looked at her, then at Clint and back to her. She reached back and caught Clint's sleeve as her steps stuttered to a halt.

"Now?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Can he come?" 

"I'm sorry. He has to go to class."

"You can write him pass," Natasha said.

"I can't. There's no reason for him to be there."

Her forehead furrowed, and her fingers tightened in the material of his shirt. Clint smiled at her. "It's all right," he told her. "After this class is lunch, so I'll see you then." _You talked to him before on the phone without me,_ he reminded her. He didn't like seeing her so shaken. He didn't like seeing the damage that had been done right there at the surface, turning her into someone she was never meant to be.

He watched her eyes, the way they clouded, the indecision there, and then the way her jaw set and she straightened her back. "I will see you then." She let go of him and followed Mr. Coulson toward his office, and Clint stood there watching, feeling like an idiot because how the hell was he going to sit through class when all he'd be able to think about was what was going on in that room?

By the time the period was over, she was still in the office. He sat in one of the chairs that faced Mr. Coulson's desk and waited, legs sprawled in front of him, staring at the ceiling. He would have tried to eavesdrop if he hadn't known that it was futile. So instead he just tried to imagine what was being said, what questions the agent would ask, what Natasha would say. She would be all right. She was strong, stronger than probably anyone he'd ever known, and she wouldn't let it get to her. 

She'd gotten this far, after all. Now there was finally a light at the end of the tunnel, maybe, and now that she could see it, she would keep fighting. 

She finally came out ten minutes before the bell, looking worn and pale. _Okay?_ , he asked her.

Natasha shrugged. _Later._ He offered her the other half of his sandwich, which he'd had no appetite for, and she took it and wolfed it down. _Thank you._

The door to the back room opened and Natasha stiffened. She grabbed his elbow, fingers digging in, and pulled him toward the door. When he tried to ask what was wrong, she pointedly ignored the question, and then the bell rang and the halls filled with students and he didn't have a chance to pursue it.

When he finally saw her again for last period, the only one they shared, she was tight-lipped about the whole thing. Finally he asked, _Why did you drag me out?_

She rolled her eyes. _I don't want him to talk to you. I don't want you dragged into it. I want your name out of it so that you stay safe. How many times do I have to tell you?_

_But I'm **in** it, Natasha! You can't erase me from the story. I'm part of this too!_ Could she? Had she thought of some way to tell the story that took out all mention of him? Maybe she had; it wasn't like she hadn't had plenty of time to think about it. 

And he got it. He did. On the one hand, anyway. She didn't want him dragged into it because if her uncle knew about him, if he thought that Clint played a role in whatever happened from here on out, he would be as much a target as Natasha. And it wasn't like _he_ was the one who was being bought and sold. He wasn't the one who was bruised more often than not in places that couldn't easily be explained... or in places that could be but that would send up red flags all over the place. He wasn't the one who was going through this.

But he _was_ part of it. It would be impossible for him to talk about the last almost six months of his life without mentioning her. How could she? 

_I know you are,_ she replied, her jaw tense. _You want to help. I know you want to help. You would do anything you could for me. **I know**. But this isn't about you. It's about me. I think I've earned the right to be little bit selfish. I want to keep you out of it if I can, because I need at least **one** thing that isn't completely tangled up in all of this. **One thing** that even if this all falls apart, I will still have to call mine. And that's you._

"Oh."

There wasn't really anything else he could say to that, and he didn't think she'd ever said anything so plainly in all of the time that he'd known her. There was no way he was going to try to argue. 

_So what happens now?,_ he asked. 

_We wait._

So they waited. And while they waited, Natasha started giving him the things that mattered most to her, a piece or two at a time, for safekeeping. Because once it all came tumbling down, once they arrested her uncle and whoever else they managed to take down with him, she wouldn't be able to go back. Although they wouldn't let her in on the scope of it, it was pretty clear that the FBI had been trying to find a way into the organization for a long time, and that when this all went down, it wouldn't just be Natasha's so-called uncle who ended up in handcuffs. And once that happened, it was just better for her to stay away.

The agent came back and talked to her a few more times, but no matter how many times she asked, he would never say when he thought that it might all be over. 

_Does he not care what's happening to you?_ , Clint demanded one day, after yet another interview in which Natasha had only been told "soon". _Is it even legal for him to let you keep going back there, knowing what's going on?_

_I don't know_ , she replied. _It can't be much longer._

But they didn't know for sure. They wouldn't know for sure until it happened. Every day felt like an eternity, and although she never said it, every night had to be like a lifetime for Natasha. She texted him when she could get away with it, but most of the time it was only to say that she was okay, and Clint knew it was a lie, unless the definition of 'okay' being used was simply 'still alive'.

One night she called, and Clint imagined her hiding in her closet again, because her voice sounded muffled and distant, and he could barely make it out. "Is not a lie, is it?" she asked. "Is not just bad joke? Bad dream?"

"What?" he asked. "What isn't?"

"When he say soon, is true? It has to be true."

"I don't know," Clint admitted. "I don't think he's allowed to lie about that kind of thing, though. I just don't know if soon is a few days or a few weeks."

"Any time is too long."

"I know." He opened his mouth to say that he was sorry, then closed it, because what good would it do? She would just tell him that he didn't have anything to be sorry for. He tried to think of something else to say, something that might make these dark hours a little easier to deal with, but before he could think of anything the line disconnected.

He didn't sleep much that night.

Finally they received their first real sign of hope that something was finally going to happen. Natasha got new documents, showing that she had a visa to stay in the country for the investigation. So they really were going to do something, and maybe soon actually meant _soon_ , and not _eventually_. 

She held the paper with shaking hands, then carefully folded it and handed it to Clint, wrapping his fingers around it. First her heart, now her future, or at least a piece of it. Most of it depended on things that were so far out of their control they didn't even have names and faces. 

She was trusting him to keep it all safe.

_So for once in your life, Barton,_ he told himself, _don't fuck this up._


	38. Chapter 38

Clint was trying not to doze off in math class Friday morning when the door opened and one of the secretaries stepped in. "Just a moment," his teacher said, then went and took the slip of paper that the woman held. "Clint Barton," she said. "Mr. Coulson's office."

_What did I do? I didn't do anything!_ He had to bite back the urge to say the words out loud. But it wasn't the principal's office, so maybe he wasn't actually in trouble. Still, the social worker didn't usually pull them out of class unexpectedly.

Unless... His gut suddenly felt filled with ice. He shoved his textbook and notes into his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed the pass from his math teacher on the way out. It was Natasha. It had to be. Something was wrong, and...

"No running," the secretary told him. He slowed down to a very fast walk until she was out of sight (she must have assumed that he knew the way to Mr. Coulson's office) and then he took off again.

"Whoa," said a man standing outside the door when he reached for the handle to push it open. "Where are you going in such a hurry?" 

Clint didn't recognize him. He tried to dodge past him but the guy was very good at taking up more space than he had any right to. He wasn't even that big, and if it came to a fight, Clint could probably take him... as long as he didn't mind fighting dirty, which he didn't. Who cared if it wasn't gentlemanly, as long as it worked?

He shoved the pass at the man. "Get out of my way," he said. "They told me to come."

The man looked at the pass and tapped his knuckle against the door. It swung open and the man motioned him inside. 

"Feet apart. Arms up."

Another man he didn't recognize, and they were dressed like they were trying to blend in, but there was something about them that just screamed 'cop'. Clint didn't like it. Where was Natasha? Hell, where was Mr. Coulson? What the hell was going on?

"Are you deaf?" the man demanded. "Feet apart, arms up!"

"Actually, I am, asshole," Clint said, crossing his arms and keeping his feet firmly together. "What—"

Mr. Coulson appeared then, stepping out of the back room. "It's all right, Mister Barton," he said. "He just needs to make sure that you're not carrying any weapons. It's just a precaution. We need to keep her safe."

"She's here?" Clint asked. "She's okay?"

"She's fine," Coulson said. "Just do ask he asks and you can see her."

"I'm the last person in the entire fucking _world_ who would want to hurt her!" Clint snapped. 

"And you have nothing to hide, I'm sure. I had to go through it, too. Please, just do what they ask." Then Mr. Coulson did something Clint hadn't expected. Slowly, painstakingly, he formed three signs: _She. Needs. You._

Clint held out his arms and spread his feet shoulder width apart, allowing himself to be patted down. It hadn't occurred to him that maybe somewhere along the line, supervising their independent study, Mr. Coulson might actually pick up a word here and there. 

"He's clean," the man – police or FBI, Clint didn't know – said.

"No sh—" Clint started, but Mr. Coulson silenced him with a look. 

"Go on," he said, opening the door to the other room and letting Clint pass through and closing it behind him. 

Natasha was sitting curled in the corner of the couch, looking very small. She was chewing on her thumbnail, and when Clint came in she didn't move. She just stared at him as if she was frozen in place. 

_Are you okay?_ , he asked.

Slowly, she nodded. 

_What's happening? Why are we here?_

_It's happening,_ she replied. _Soon. Now._

They'd spent so long being told 'soon' that the idea that soon was finally here took a few seconds to process. Everything they'd done, everything Natasha had told them, all these weeks of waiting, and finally they'd reached the moment that it had all been leading up to: they were going to arrest her uncle.

Not her uncle. The man who'd forged papers so he could steal her from a Russian orphanage, promising a new life and new possibilities in America, and then turned her into a prostitute. The man who was tied to a lot more men who were guilty of terrible things, worse things even than this, maybe, although it was hard to think of anything worse than what had been done to his best friend, because death was quicker and probably less painful.

It was all coming down, thanks to Natasha. Now.

He went and sat next to her, turned so he could face her, and asked again, _Are you okay?_

_They want to keep me guarded until it's done,_ she replied. _Even though they shouldn't be able to get to me here at school. Just to be safe._

_And me?_ He had to ask.

_I need you safe too. In case._

_Okay._

She watched him then, studying his face so intently he wondered if she was trying to memorize it. It was a little unnerving, and finally he reached out to take her hand, resting his fingers over hers lightly. "It's going to be okay," he told her. "I'm not going anywhere."

She shrugged, but turned her hand over and laced her fingers through his, shifting closer until they were shoulder to shoulder. When the bell rang, they both tensed, but nothing happened, so they tried to settle again, but it was hard. A few minutes into the next period, Mr. Coulson came in with assignments from their teachers, so they pulled out their books and tried to get some work done, but they were both jumping at every little sound, and didn't accomplish much.

Food was brought to them at lunch time, but neither of them touched it. Clint slid his arm around Natasha and felt her press herself back against him. She would never admit that she was scared, but he knew that she was. They both were. If something went wrong... They wouldn't be keeping her locked in a room if there wasn't the chance of something going wrong. 

"Mr. Coulson, they aren't allowing me to leave!"

Clint looked up at the sound of Tony's voice, somewhat muffled by the door but still loud enough that even he could hear it. 

"I'm sorry, Tony," Mr. Coulson said. "No one is permitted on or off of the campus at this time."

Natasha looked at Clint, her eyes wide, then pressed her finger to her lips and got up, moving to the door and opening it a crack so they could hear better. 

"I have a class to attend at the university!" Tony said. "You can't block me from my education! My dad is paying for that class, and if he hears that—"

"We've made arrangements for you to attend the lecture via video conference," Mr. Coulson said. "I'm sure you have a laptop on you, or some other device, even though you're not supposed to. You're welcome to stay here to log in. I have the password right here."

"But why are we on lockdown? What's going on?" Tony demanded.

"Please, keep your voice down," Mr. Coulson said. They couldn't see to know if the door to the hall was open; for all they knew Tony's inability to keep his mouth shut might cause a panic if people overheard. "Everything is fine. It's just a safety precaution."

"If we need to be locked down as a safety precaution, then I'm pretty sure that that means everything isn't fine. If everything was fine, no one would be making any special arrangements for anything. It's like you knew that this was going to happen, and—"

"Mister Stark. This is not negotiable, and arguing with me is not going to change anything," Mr. Coulson said. "Have a seat and get signed in or you might end up being late. You wouldn't want that; your father is paying for that class, after all."

Clint would have paid money to see the look on Tony's face when he had his own words turned back on him. "Can I at least go sit where it's actually comfortable?" he asked, his voice getting closer. 

They scrambled back from the door as it was shoved open, and Tony stared at them. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked. 

Natasha looked at Clint, who shrugged. If she wanted to tell him, it was okay with him, but it was her life that was in the balance here, and so it had to be her decision. She shrugged back, then said, "Is because of me. We are locked down because of me. Because of what we find, I turn in my uncle. Is to keep me safe."

"Oh." Tony looked at Clint, then back at Natasha. "Right. Well, I have to do this video conference thing so..."

Clint almost laughed at how quickly he backed down when he knew that Natasha was the cause of all of this. He couldn't tell if it was because he'd actually started to figure out just how big and bad the whole situation was, or if it was just because he was afraid of Natasha. Not that it mattered. At least it shut him up.

Tony left after the lecture was over, looking back over his shoulder at them as he departed, and Clint hoped that the glare Natasha gave him was enough to keep his mouth shut. They stayed where they were, waiting for someone to tell them that it was over, that everything was okay now.

They expected that it would be one of the FBI agents, but it was Principal Fury who finally stepped into the room near the end of the day, during what would have been their independent study time. "All right," he said, looking at Natasha. "It's time to go home."

Clint winced at how hard her fingers clenched his as she looked wildly at him, then back at Principal Fury. "What?"

"You made it clear, in spite of everything that you were told about the danger of remaining here, that you would not leave," he said. "You refused to leave this school, and your friends. You said you were willing to take a chance on there still being people connected to the organization that might find you and try to hurt you. All that being said, you still need to be in some kind of protective custody, and most foster homes aren't equipped to provide that. So special arrangements had to be made." He looked at her, his expression stern. "You're coming home with me."

"Is that... can you _do_ that?" Clint asked, trying to shift so that he was between Natasha and Principal Fury. He wasn't a threat... probably... but for once there was something he could do for her... kind of... so he was going to do it, damn it.

"If there is a need for any sort of school authority in regards to Miss Romanova, Assistant Principal Hill will handle them so that there is no conflict of interest between being the principal and her guardian," Fury said. "I'm sorry to spring this on you, Natalia, but—"

"Natasha," she said fiercely. 

"Natasha. I'm sorry to spring this on you, but we didn't want to take any chances on anyone finding out."

"My things are at Clint's house," she said, crushing his fingers again. "Everything I want to keep is with him."

"We'll get them," Fury told her. "Don't worry. But we need to go now."

"But—"

"You'll see Mister Barton later, Natasha, when we get your stuff. We need to go _now_."

Natasha looked at him, and he looked at Principal Fury, and he didn't want to trust this man who was making demands and not explaining why. He didn't want to let Natasha go. 

"What's going on?" Mr. Coulson asked, stepping into the doorway beside Principal Fury and taking in the standoff. "Natasha, we want to get you out of here before the end of school, so if they have anyone watching, they won't be able to pick you out of the crowd, and they won't get any idea of who might be a friend or acquaintance," he said. "Not for forever, but for today. So you need to leave in the next few minutes."

Clint still didn't like it, but at least it was an explanation. At least it made a little bit of sense. He turned to look at Natasha, and he could in her eyes that she was trying to decide whether she could trust them one more time. Then it was like she shut down, and a mask slipped into place. "Okay," she said. She let go of Clint's hand and packed up her school books. 

She didn't say goodbye, didn't even say see you later, and it left Clint cold. Watching her walk away felt way too final. _Look back,_ he thought as loud as he could. _Please. Just look back._

She didn't, but when she turned to follow Principal Fury down the hall, he saw one hand gripping her sleeve, the middle two fingers folded in and the other three extended. One sign, but it was enough. 

Hell. It was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who isn't familiar with probably the best known sign in American Sign Language, [this is the sign](http://rlv.zcache.com/sign_language_i_love_you_heart_hand_post_cards-r0afc9c20a4f64928b4bef797dac56d96_vgbaq_8byvr_512.jpg) that Natasha flashes at the end of the chapter.


	39. Chapter 39

"Clinton, what has gotten into you?" Mrs. Sullivan demanded, after he nearly ran into her for the third or fourth time. She'd asked him to set the table, and he was doing it, but he kept forgetting things and having to go back to the cupboards or drawers to get them. "You need to pay attention to where you're going."

"Sorry," he mumbled, but didn't answer her question. Because what had gotten into him was the fact that he didn't know where Natasha was. She was with Principal Fury, and he had no idea where the man lived. If he needed to find her, he couldn't, and the realization of that had hit him like a punch to the gut not long after she'd walked out the door at school earlier that afternoon.

He'd asked Mr. Coulson, but he'd been told that he wasn't allowed to disclose that, and anyway, it was for Natasha's safety that as few people as possible knew her exact location. Clint hadn't bothered to argue that that didn't – or shouldn't – apply to him, because he knew it wouldn't get him anywhere. 

He just kept telling himself that he would see her later, when she came to pick up her stuff. Unless Principal Fury decided to just come get it himself, but she wouldn't let him do that. There was no way that she would let him do that. Right?

He sat down to dinner with the rest of the family but only poked at his food. He tuned out the chattering of the younger boys, and by the annoyance in Mrs. Sullivan's tone, she'd probably asked him several times when he finally registered that she was asking him about his day. "Fine," he said. "Just a normal day."

"Did you learn anything new?" Mr. Sullivan asked.

Clint shrugged. Learning that FBI agents could be obnoxious pricks wasn't really new; all authority figures pretty much fell into that category. "Not really."

"Do you have any plans for the weekend?" he asked. 

"I'm going to see Natasha," Clint said, his tone maybe a little more adamant than it needed to be. 

"Well that's good," Mr. Sullivan said. "She's hasn't been around much."

"Family shit," Clint said, and grimaced when the little boys started howling about how he'd said a bad word. 

"Watch your language," Mrs. Sullivan said, and then set about calming the boys, which took the attention off of him and let him finish his dinner... or at least choke down a few mouthfuls... in peace. 

The doorbell rang as they were cleaning up, and Mr. Sullivan went to answer it. He came back with Principal Fury and Natasha trailing behind him, looking slightly puzzled and a rather annoyed. "Honey," he said. "We have a visitor."

Principal Fury smiled, and it was an unsettling expression. Clint drifted toward Natasha, making his way to her side as introductions were made. "I'm sorry to barge in like this, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan," he said. "I'd thought that Clint would have told you that we were coming over to pick up Natasha's things."

"What—" Mrs. Sullivan stopped herself. "No, we weren't aware." She gestured to one of the kitchen chairs. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be great," Fury said, not sitting. "I actually wanted to talk to you about something, if you've got a few minutes, while Natasha and Clint get her stuff."

"Boys, go upstairs," Mrs. Sullivan said, and then repeated it more insistently when they didn't move right away. She had to chase them halfway up the stairs before she could be sure they wouldn't just come right back. "I'm sorry about that," she said, getting a mug from the cupboard and pouring the principal a cup of coffee. "As you may have noticed, we're a bit in the dark. What things exactly have you come for? And... who are you exactly?"

"I'm the principal at Shield County High School, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here because I was just appointed Natasha's guardian today, and it's my understanding that she's been keeping some of the things that she values here." 

"I see," Mrs. Sullivan said. "I had thought she was living with her uncle."

"The situation became unstable and was deemed unsafe," Fury replied. "So I'll be looking out for her for now."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mr. Sullivan said, looking past Principal Fury to Natasha. She shrugged slightly and moved closer to Clint, not making eye contact. He looked back at Fury. "If there's anything we can do to help, please let us know." 

"Thank you," Principal Fury said. "There actually is something you can do to help, which is why I wanted to come in and talk to you rather than just sending Natasha in to get her things."

"Of course," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Why don't we move into the living room?"

Clint started to follow them, but Natasha caught his arm and held him back. She tugged on his sleeve, glaring until he followed her up the stairs, then pressed her finger to her lips and crept back down again, staying just out of sight by the door between the living room and the kitchen, so they could hear what was being said without the adults knowing they were hearing it.

"Before anything else, I wanted to ask how much you know about Natasha's... situation," Principal Fury said. "Has Clint told you anything?" 

"We know that she was living with her uncle," Mrs. Sullivan said. "We had no idea that things weren't going well there. He seemed... fine when we talked to him."

"You talked to him?" Principal Fury asked. "When did you talk to him?"

"It was back in February, when that big storm hit," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Natasha came over that morning, and they conveniently forget that she had to go home until the roads had gotten quite bad. We talked to him to make sure that it was all right with him if she spent the night. He said that it was, and she actually ended up spending two nights because the roads weren't plowed."

"Did you ever meet him?" Principal Fury asked. 

"No," Mr. Sullivan said. "I drove her home a few times, but we never met him." After a moment he added, "I got the impression that it wasn't the best situation, but nothing specific. Nothing that we could really act on, or even ask her about. Just... a feeling."

Clint felt Natasha press harder against his side, and he wrapped his arm around her, silently trying to give her comfort, even though he was on edge himself. Where was all of this going? How much did Fury know, anyway? But he couldn't ask, because Natasha's attention was fixed entirely on what was happening in that room, even though they couldn't see anything.

"I think she hid how bad things were for a long time, from pretty much everyone," Fury said. "When she finally said something, she already had a plan of how she was getting out. That's why she's got stuff here. She's been giving it to Clint to keep safe so when she was able to leave, it was a clean break."

"So you think Clinton knew?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. "I can't imagine that if he knew that something bad was happening to his friend, he would just sit back and let it happen." She sounded almost indignant, and Clint couldn't help feeling the faintest glow of pride that she actually believed something good about him for once. 

Mr. Sullivan cleared his throat. "Maybe he didn't," he said. "Maybe he just didn't tell us anything, either."

And maybe Mr. Sullivan was smarter than he'd thought, Clint had to admit to himself. 

"What he knew or didn't know isn't really the issue right now," Fury said. "But I think he knew something, and I think he's been looking out for her the best he could. From what she's said – which ain't a whole lot, I'll admit – he's the person she trusts most. Which is the only reason I'm even considering asking this."

"Asking what?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. 

Natasha's hand found Clint's and she wrapped her fingers through his and squeezed. 

"She wants him to come stay with her tonight. And she actually asked instead of just figuring out a way to sneak him in, which is more than I honestly expected, so I said that I would talk to you about it."

Clint looked at Natasha, wide-eyed, and signed, awkwardly one-handed, _You actually asked him that?_

_Not asked. Told. I told him I wanted you with me._ She took her hand away to be able to form the words more easily. _He asked me what he could do to help me feel safe. I said, 'Let Clint come stay.'_ H

Clint almost laughed, not because it was funny but because he didn't know how else to react. He never would have dared... Except he would. He did. Just like they'd said. He'd managed to keep Natasha here for two nights, and that was without the Sullivans knowing anything. He didn't know how much Principal Fury knew about what Natasha had been through, but it was definitely more than nothing, and was apparently enough for him to ask this crazy thing that the Sullivans were never going to agree to.

"No," Mrs. Sullivan said immediately. "Absolutely not."

"I understand that she's going through a tough time right now," Mr. Sullivan said, "but have you considered the fact that she might be trying to... manipulate the situation to get what she wants? That she might be—"

"Lying? Yeah, I considered that. But let me ask you – have you considered the fact that maybe she's not?" There was a pause, and then Principal Fury continued. "Look, I get where you're coming from."

"Then why—" Mrs. Sullivan started, but Principal Fury interrupted. Clint wished he could see the look on her face.

"They're teenagers. If they want to have sex, they're going to find a way to do it, no matter what obstacles we put in their path. That's the truth."

_We're not even--_ , Clint started, but Natasha wasn't looking, so he gave up. It probably wasn't a conversation they should be having right now anyway.

"You've had quite a few foster kids, right?" Principal Fury asked. Clint assumed the Sullivans must have nodded. "When they come here, they're scared, and it's your job to try and make them feel safe. And right now, I've got a just barely 16-year-old girl who got taken from the country she called home, uprooted and brought here to a new country, a new school, what was supposed to be a new start but turned out to be just as bad, maybe worse, than what she'd left behind. And I don't know how to fix that for her. I don't know how to make that better. So I asked her, and she told me what she wanted, what she needed. I gotta listen to that.

"Maybe I'm crazy to even consider it," he said. "Maybe I'm doing this parent thing all wrong. But your son is the only person in the world she trusts right now. He's the person who makes her feel safe. Which leads me to believe that there's probably a lot that he hasn't told you, that they haven't told anyone. And maybe we shouldn't reward that by giving in to this request, but... the damage is already done. We say no, it's just going to turn this into a battle between us and them that's not going to help them at all. And that's what we're supposed to be doing, isn't it? So I'm willing to go out on a limb and trust them, even if they don't respect me or you or whatever rules we try to make for them, to respect _each other_. Because we're making a lot of assumptions here, when I'm pretty sure all she wants is just someone to hold her hand."

"If anything happens, we could get in serious trouble," Mrs. Sullivan told him. "It's not just Clint that we have to think about, it's the other children as well. If something happens and they deem us at fault for allowing him to, to—"

Principal Fury's voice was low when he spoke again, and Clint had to strain to hear it. "You look at them and you see teen pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases and a lawsuit waiting to happen. You see every Lifetime movie and after school special they ever made about what happens when a teenage boy and girl are left alone together. I get that."

"What do you see then?" Mr. Sullivan asked.

There was a pause, a silence that stretched, and Clint nudged Natasha, thinking that maybe he was missing something, that he just couldn't hear them, but she shook her head and took his hand again.

Finally Principal Fury responded, in a gentler tone than Clint had ever heard from him. "I look at them and I see two kids who have never looked past today, because they could never be sure that tomorrow would come. And now, finally, today, they've been given a chance to get past that, and they can think about tomorrow. Maybe I'm just sentimental, but I want them to be able to wake up on that first tomorrow and see the face of someone they love. And far as I can tell, that's each other. That's what I see."

Again, silence stretched. Natasha turned and pressed her face into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, his cheek resting against her hair, swaying slightly like he was rocking her, trying to still her trembling and his own. 

Clint imagined the Sullivans having a silent argument like they did sometimes, just their eyes, going back and forth. Usually Mrs. Sullivan won, but not this time, because it was Mr. Sullivan who finally spoke up and gave their final answer: "One night."


	40. Chapter 40

It wasn't until he heard the adults getting up that Clint remembered that he and Natasha were supposed to be upstairs, getting her stuff, not huddled against the wall trying to overhear what clearly hadn't been meant for their ears. If they got caught...

"C'mon," he whispered, his lips pressed to her temple. He let his hand slide down her arm and caught her hand, pulling her towards the stairs like she'd pulled him what had only been minutes before, but seemed much longer. 

The entire world had shifted in those few minutes, or at least it felt that way.

Once they were safe in his room (and he was pretty sure they'd done it quietly enough that the adults wouldn't have heard, or if they did maybe they would just think it was one of the little boys) he looked at Natasha, searching her face for some indication of what was going on in her head.

She wasn't smiling. Shouldn't she be smiling? They'd won, hadn't they?

But it wasn't that simple. It would never be that simple. Not for her, or him either. Not for them, together. If they even were, which was a big assumption to make but it wasn't important right now, or at least he couldn't let himself worry about it.

_You okay?_

She actually seemed to be considering the question, her eyes not quite meeting his. It shouldn't be a difficult question, and the fact that it was made him wish he hadn't let go downstairs. But if they'd been caught, he wouldn't put it past the Sullivans to change their mind about the whole thing. Like the minute they saw him, guilty of disobeying, they would realize that he was every bit as bad as they'd always thought he was. 

_'Tasha?_

She shook her head slightly, not in the negative but like you did when you wanted to dislodge something from your thoughts. _I'm okay,_ she responded finally. _Where's my stuff?_

He showed her where he'd been keeping it, carefully tucked away in a couple of reusable grocery bags that Mrs. Sullivan had noticed were missing but hadn't asked him about because why would _he_ know? She would probably be annoyed when she saw, but that was pretty much her default where he was concerned and he'd taken them for a good reason and he'd bring them back. 

_It doesn't look like much, does it?_ she asked, looking up at him. _My whole life, all that matters, in two bags._

Clint's forehead furrowed. _It's just stuff,_ he pointed out. _The things that really matter you carry here._ He pointed to his chest, then hers.

Natasha scowled, looking away, and he wondered what he'd said wrong. "You better pack stuff too," she said, and her voice didn't sound quite right, but maybe that was just his hearing aids making things sound funny. 

Still, she was right. So he grabbed pajamas and clothing for tomorrow and stuffed them in a bag, then went to the bathroom to grab his toothbrush and deodorant. He was glad that none of the boys came out to start asking questions, because he really didn't feel like dealing with it. He stuffed his laptop in with the clothing, figuring they might want it to watch movies or something. He didn't know what Natasha would have at Fury's, but considering that he'd apparently only found out today that he would be taking her, Clint suspected it wouldn't be much.

_Ready?_ , she asked.

Clint shrugged, smiling crookedly. _This is all pretty weird._

Natasha nodded, then shrugged in return. _At least I—we're not alone._

_Yeah._ He shouldered his backpack and reached out for her, but she shook her head quickly. "Let's go."

So they went downstairs, where the Sullivans and Principal Fury were still talking, although it didn't seem to be about them anymore, or at least not directly. "You have everything?" Fury asked Natasha when they came into the kitchen.

" _Da._ " She wrinkled her nose. "Yes."

"You—" He looked at Clint, and the fact that he had a bag already packed, then at Natasha, his eyebrows raised. "The Sullivans have agreed to let Clint spend the night," he said. "It looks like you already told him I was asking?"

_Aw, **shit**. Way to not blow your cover, Barton._ He could feel heat creeping into his cheeks.

But Natasha just shrugged. "They are good. I know they would see is right thing to do."

If he hadn't already been in love with her, that moment would have tipped him head over heels. With just a few words, she'd made it basically impossible for the Sullivans to even consider changing their minds. 

"I guess we're all ready to go then," Principal Fury said.

"Give us a call if you'll be home late," Mr. Sullivan said. "So we know if we need to set a place for you for dinner." 

"I will," Clint said, surprised that his foster father was pretty much giving him permission to be away the whole next day. He looked at him... and Mrs. Sullivan, but mostly him... and said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Mr. Sullivan said. "Have a good time." Mrs. Sullivan forced a smile, but it was clear that she still didn't like any of this. 

They sat in the backseat of Principal Fury's car, carefully in their neutral corners because it didn't matter what he'd said or done for Natasha, it was still weird having to think of the principal as anything other than the principal, and letting him see anything besides the faces they wore at school just felt _wrong_. It was a long drive; longer than Clint liked, because it meant that Natasha wouldn't be easy to get to if she needed him. But it was better than her being taken and put somewhere that the FBI decided was safe, where he wouldn't be able to get to her at all.

"Did you eat?" Principal Fury asked when they got to the house, looking at Clint. 

"Not much," Clint admitted.

"I thought maybe you hadn't. I'm going to order pizza, because I don't feel like cooking. That all right with both of you?" They glanced at each other, then nodded. "What you want on it?" he asked.

"Just cheese," Natasha said. 

"Cheese is fine," Clint agreed.

"All right. Go settle in. I'll call you when it gets here."

It was a relief to get away from the man's single eye. Clint shook himself like a wet dog as soon as Natasha's door was closed, and he was surprised when Natasha actually laughed. "You think is bad for you?" she asked. "You are not one who has to live with him!"

"It's just _weird_!" Clint said. "It's like... you don't think about teachers having houses and lives and stuff outside of school. Especially him!"

"I know," Natasha said. "But... is what they will agree to. They believe he can keep me safe. What choice I have?" 

"Anything's better than where you were before," Clint said. 

" _Da._." She looked around the room, taking it all in, but finally her gaze came back to him. She closed the distance between them, burying her face against his shoulder like she'd done in the kitchen back at the Sullivan's. "Is good you are here," she said softly, or at least Clint was pretty sure that's what she said. Her voice was muffled and he couldn't see her lips. Her breath tickled against his throat. 

"I'm glad I'm here," he said. "Letting you go earlier..."

"I know." She looked up at him, loosening her grip. "I guess I should put things away." She let go of him, and turned away, and Clint was left standing there, not knowing what to do. There wasn't really any way for him to help her; it wasn't as if there was much to do. He didn't know what to do with the sudden awkwardness of it all. 

He hoped it was just the fact that it was a new place, new circumstances, new rules to learn and live by, and not something more than that. They'd come this far together, and she'd asked him to be here, but...

He shoved away the thoughts, instead taking in the room, which was pretty plain. "You know how long you'll be here?" he asked. 

"No," Natasha said. "Not really. A few months, at least. Arresting them is only first step. Now lawyers build case, go to trial... it can take long time, they say." She looked into the mirror over her dresser, catching his eye through it. "Is better if it takes longer," she said. "Once is all over, then is no reason for them to let me stay."

"But they won't send you back," Clint said. "They can't!"

"When I am not useful, they can," Natasha said. "But I think before then we will find another way for me to stay." She turned and looked at him directly. _I'm not leaving without a fight. My life is here now._

He felt something in his chest unknot. _Okay._

Natasha smiled, just the corner of her mouth curving up, and he smiled back, and sat on the edge of the bed to stay out of her way as she finished putting things away. "He say we go shopping for more clothes. I take only what is mine, and is not much. I won't wear clothes of dead girl anymore."

The image made Clint shiver. He could only imagine how Natasha felt.

"Do I have to go with you for that?" Clint asked. "'Cause they ain't gonna let me in the dressing room with you, and that's the only part I'm interested in." He tried to keep a straight face, but as he watched her eyes widen as she processed what he'd said, he started to laugh... and when she tackled him back on the bed, thumping him on the head with a pillow, he couldn't stop.

Which was why Principal Fury found them tangled up, dissolved in a fit of giggles, when he came to tell them the pizza was there. For the second time, Clint felt his cheeks heating up, and this time Natasha had no comeback, even though Fury didn't actually say anything about it.

After they'd eaten, they retreated to her room again, putting in a movie less because they cared what was happening on the screen and more because it felt like an excuse to curl up against each other, finding comfort in all of the places where their bodies touched and the way their breathing seemed to fall in sync, like they weren't quite two people anymore.

Clint didn't remember taking out his hearing aids or laying down or falling asleep. It had been a long day and everything had gotten pretty fuzzy halfway through their second movie. But he woke up to Natasha tossing beside him, and he couldn't hear if she was making noise but her face told him that whatever was going on in her head, it wasn't anything good. 

"Natasha," he said, shaking her gently. "'Tasha, wake up. It's only a dream. It's all right."

Her eyes flew open, and she put her hands up to push him away, but then when she realized who it was, her fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt and she clung, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes darting wild around the room before it sank in that it really was okay, she was safe, that this time, she could actually escape the nightmare by waking.

She sat up, leaning into him as she disentangled herself from the sheets. She was soaked with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead and the back of her neck with it, her t-shirt clammy. She stood up shakily, and Clint got up with her, catching her as she stumbled. _Are you okay?_

_Bathroom._ She went to her dresser and pulled out clean pajamas. _Just stay here._

But he didn't stay. He couldn't. He followed her, and she didn't protest as he sat down on the floor of the hall outside the bathroom door. It was stupid, he knew, but it made him feel better knowing that if anyone was going to get near her, they would have to go through him first. 

The water turned on, and a while later shut off, and he was starting to get worried when she didn't come out right away. Minutes ticked past and he had just stood up and raised his hand to knock when she came out.

Clint's jaw dropped. _'Tasha?_

_I had to,_ she said. _That was Natalia. She's gone now. Dead._ She looked back into the bathroom, at the mirror that had fogged over and then had a circle wiped clear in the middle, at the scissors on the edge of the sink and the sodden locks of dark red hair scattered on the tiles. _I had to._

_Okay,_ Clint said, because what else was there to say? He held out his hand and she took it, and they went back to her room, where she closed – and locked – the door. 

She looked up at him, and if she was trying to disguise the uncertainty in her eyes, she wasn't doing a very good job. 

He ran his fingers through her hair, tucking it back behind her ears – it stopped a little below her chin now, hanging in loose waves – and smiled. _I like it,_ he said. _It suits you._

She nodded, her face still tipped up, still with that worried look that he hated seeing because he couldn't figure out what she was worried about. It wasn't as if she needed his approval; the last thing he wanted was to tell her what to do. She'd had enough of that. 

She bit her lip, and he let his thumb slide along her jaw to draw it from between her teeth. He felt her tense, shifting half a step closer, so that their bodies had barely the space of a breath between them, and then he got it... or hoped he did because if he was wrong...

But from the way she kissed him back, he wasn't, and if this was what she'd been worried about, well... he hoped she wasn't worried anymore.

Even if everything else was still shaky, this was – they were – still solid.


	41. Chapter 41

The second time Clint woke up was a lot more peaceful than the first, and he wished he hadn't, because it meant that he would eventually have to leave the cocoon of blankets that they'd made around themselves. Natasha was fitted into the curve of his body, spooned there, so close her hair tickled his nose. 

The morning light caught it, and ignited sparks in the red waves. He wondered if she would regret what she'd done when she woke up; it seemed like the kind of thing that might not seem like such a good idea in hindsight. But it wasn't like she'd gone crazy and hacked it off in chunks at the scalp, so she'd probably be all right.

He felt her stir and shift, and he loosed his arms around her to let her move. She rolled over, blinking slowly like it took some effort to raise her eyelids. "Good morning," he said, brushing away a strand of hair that had stuck to her cheek. 

Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear the words. He reached for his hearing aids, but she took his hand and stopped him, wrapping her fingers around his and kissing his knuckles. _You're here,_ she signed, awkward with so little space between them. 

_I know._

_I like you here._

_I like you everywhere,_ he countered.

Natasha scowled, but Clint knew her heart wasn't in it. _Idiot._

_I know._

And then they didn't say anything for a while, and it should have been awkward, just lying there so close, barely moving, just watching each other, but it wasn't. It was easy, and maybe that's why they did it, because they weren't used to easy and it felt good to not have to fight every moment. 

Natasha didn't have an alarm clock so it was impossible to tell how long they stayed like that. Long enough that Fury must have gotten up, though, because after a while the smell of cooking crept into the room. Clint felt his stomach gurgle, and it must have been loud enough to hear because Natasha grinned.

_Hungry?_ , she asked.

_I'm always hungry._

_We probably have to get up for food,_ she pointed out.

_I know._

Neither of them moved, until Natasha twisted her head around and called something that Clint couldn't decipher. _He's calling us,_ she explained. _Now we have to._ But still they didn't move.

By the look of annoyance on Natasha's face, Fury must have called again, or maybe knocked, because she finally started to untangle them from the blankets. She sat up, her hair going in all directions, and then pushed herself to standing. It was only then that Clint noticed that the t-shirt that she wore was one of his, but not the one that he'd been wearing yesterday, and not the one he'd packed. He wondered when she'd taken it, and how he hadn't noticed. 

He decided not to ask. He just grabbed his hearing aids and put them in, then followed Natasha up and out into the hall. "Make sure you clean up the mess in the bathroom," Fury called. He didn't sound angry, but there was also no room for argument in this tone. 

Natasha grimaced and went into the bathroom first, cleaning up like she'd been told to, and inspecting her hair in the mirror. _It's crooked,_ she said.

Clint shrugged. _So when Fury takes you shopping, go to somewhere and have them fix it,_ he said. _You can't tell unless you're looking._

She spent another few seconds looking at herself, then switched placed with Clint, waiting outside the bathroom door for him before they both went into the kitchen.

Principal Fury was cooking. Clint felt like they'd dropped into the Twilight Zone or something, because not only was he cooking, but he was wearing an apron and actually looked like he knew what he was doing. "Are those blueberry pancakes?" Clint asked. 

"Yes, and help yourselves before they get cold. Bacon will be done in a minute. Syrup is in the fridge if you want it, and orange juice. Do either of you want eggs?" He glanced over his shoulder at them, and laughed at their dumbstruck expressions. "Dishes are in that cupboard, silverware is in the drawer."

Clint went to the indicated cupboard and got out three plates and three glasses. Natasha retrieved silverware, then went to the fridge. The table was round, so there wasn't really any way to put much distance between their places and Principal Fury's, but they tried. 

"You didn't answer my question," he said. "Eggs?"

"Uh, yes please," Clint said. "Sir."

"Natasha?"

"Yes? Sir." 

"You don't have to call me sir," Fury said. "Mister Fury is fine. Scrambled?"

They both nodded, edging closer together because it felt like the entire world had been turned on its head, and they were in some kind of whacked-out sitcom or something, only the universe was laughing at them, not with them.

Soon breakfast was on the table, and they sat down to eat, glancing at each other occasionally but avoiding looking at the hulking presence of the man who had made the food. He let them eat, and only when they were finishing up did he say anything, "You two can do the dishes. I have a dishwasher so it's mostly just rinsing things off. Once everything's cleaned up and everyone is showered, we'll go see about getting you some new clothes," he told Natasha. "As long as Clint doesn't mind being dragged along for the ride."

Natasha glanced at him, the corner of her mouth quirking up, and he cracked a smile in return, remembering when the topic had come up the day before. "I don't mind," he said.

"Good. I'm going to go shower while you two clean up." He looked back and forth between them, and the way that they avoided eye contact with him. "You're going to have to get used to the idea that I'm human sooner or later."

_Probably later,_ Clint said, once his back was turned. _**Much** later._

*

Most of the day was spent at a mall that was even farther away from Clint's house and the school. He assumed that it was because there was less chance of them being seen by anyone who might recognize Natasha there, although with her hair cut short he thought they might not recognize her anyway, unless they got a good look at her face. She even held herself differently, and he hadn't realized just how defeated she'd seemed until she suddenly wasn't anymore.

Shopping wasn't exactly his favorite thing, but he had fun picking out the craziest and/or ugliest things that he could find and trying to convince Natasha to try them on. Sometimes she even humored him, which was always good for a laugh, but mostly she just tried to smack him upside the head and he had to dodge quick because she wasn't gentle about it. If Principal Fury minded their clowning, he didn't say anything. Mostly he just stayed out of the way, always in eyesight and earshot, but not crowding them or getting involved, except when it came time to pay.

They had lunch out, and by the time they got back to the house, they were all hungry again, and exhausted. 

Natasha hesitated, standing awkwardly with her hip cocked in the kitchen doorway, the fingers of one hand clenched in Clint's sleeve so he couldn't get away as she asked, "Do you want help? With dinner?"

Fury turned to look at her, his eyebrows up in surprise. "That's all right," he said. "I've got it. But thank you." 

Clint could feel the tension in her ease, and she released her grip on him. They retreated to her room, and she began to sort through the bags, removing tags and heaping it all together to be washed. "'Tasha?" he asked after a minute. She looked up. _Why did you ask if you didn't want to do it?_

She shrugged. _Because I have to live here. Because he did all of this for me. I owe him now._

Clint frowned. He didn't like the way she seemed to shrink a little with those words. _You don't owe him. He agreed to do it. I don't owe the Sullivans._

_But you do what they ask you to,_ Natasha replied. _You have to, or they might not want to keep you. I need to stay here. So I asked._

It made sense. When he thought about it, it made perfect sense. He'd been too pissed off about everything when he'd first been put into the system to care whether the Sullivans kept him or not, but now he had something to lose, and so did she, so now they both had to make sure that they never gave any reason for either of them to be sent elsewhere.

_We'll clean up after,_ Clint told her. _Like this morning._

She nodded, and once all of the clothing was in the laundry basket Fury had given her, she sat down next to him. _I don't want you to go,_ she told him, her signs small, like she didn't even want to admit it knowing that there was no possible way for anyone to overhear. 

_I don't want to go,_ Clint replied. _Maybe we can ask?_

_Maybe._

And they did, or Natasha did, but the answer was no. "It's not because I have a problem with him being here," Fury said. "Or that I don't trust you or anything like that. But you're going to have to get used to being here on your own, and the Sullivans weren't thrilled about the idea in the first place, so I don't think we should push it too far."

He looked down at her, and the look on his face was almost gentle. "You're safe here, Natasha. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"I know," she said, but Clint could tell she didn't really believe it.

In her room, he shoved his stuff back into his backpack. _You can always call me if you need me,_ he told her. _That doesn't change._

She looked almost startled, as if she'd assumed that it would, once she was out of her uncle's house. _Are you sure?_

_Nothing changes with you and me,_ he told her. _Call me if you need me, and I'll see you on Monday. Promise._

Natasha nodded, and then, because he wouldn't be able to when Fury dropped him off even if she came along for the ride, he kissed her good night. Maybe the cliché was true, and actions did speak louder than words, because just like the night before, the kiss she seemed to believe more than any words Clint could have thought of to say. And that was fine by him.


	42. Chapter 42

"This is a bad idea," Tony said. "This is actually quite possibly the worst idea I've ever heard, and considering that I come up with at least a dozen bad ideas every single day, that's saying something."

"It will be fun," Steve responded. "We all get to miss a day of school—"

" _And_ a day of the weekend," Tony interrupted. "Anyway, I _like_ school. I enjoy every opportunity I get to share my wealth of knowledge with all of my less-enlightened peers. So really, by taking me out of school, you're depriving _them_ of an educational opportunity and—"

He stopped dead, and they all turned to see why.

Standing in the doorway of Mr. Coulson's meeting room was Pepper, who had also frozen in place as soon as she saw Tony, and tried to back away. "You didn't tell me that _he_ would be here," she said, whirling around to face the social worker when he blocked her route of egress. "There is no way that I'm going to be shut in a room with him for even one minute."

"I'll be here the entire time," Mr. Coulson said in his most reassuring tone. "We've discussed this, Miss Potts. You agreed to come and see—"

"But that was before I knew that _Tony Stark_ was part of the group that you wanted me to join. I agreed because I thought it would be a group of _sane_ people, and we could all discuss things like reasonable, rational people, and he is neither of those things and—"

"And you agreed. We can stand here and continue to argue over it, or you can come in and take a seat and we can all try to have a calm, reasonable, rational discussion. If, at the end of the period, you are still adamant that this is not going to be in any way beneficial to you, then we can continue the conversation at that time. Just sit over there next to Natasha so that we can get started."

Clint felt Natasha tense and she shifted ever-so-slightly closer to him as Pepper sat down at the end of the couch, her eyes narrowed and her jaw set. It would almost be funny, except it wasn't, because they'd all sort of settled into a routine, and now Mr. Coulson had turned everything on its head by bringing in someone else. They might not all like each other, but they managed to co-exist in the confines of this room.

Mr. Coulson sat down, smoothing his tie. "Now, it sounds like you were already discussing the weekend trip that I proposed last week. Have you all had a chance to discuss it w—"

"We've decided that it's a very bad idea," Tony said. "We're not for it. We're actually against it. End of discussion, case closed, next order of business." He looked around, waiting for the others to nod their agreement.

"As much as I hate to say it," Loki drawled from the corner where he always sat, long limbs curled around him, "I agree with him. I don't see what possible benefit we could get from being taken out of school to go... frolic in the forest for two days is going to do for any of us."

"It's a team-building retreat," Mr. Coulson said. "You've all been through a lot this year, and I want to give you the chance to get away from everything for a couple of days. I thought it would be good for everyone to have something to focus on that wasn't school or home or any of the other stressors in your lives."

"But Steve and Thor aren't even going to be _in_ the group anymore, so why would they be part of it?" Tony asked. "They're graduating, the lucky bastards."

"I thought you liked school," Bruce said, the faintest hint of a smile quirking his lips as he glanced at Tony.

Tony grabbed his stomach like he'd been punched. " _Et tu, Brute?_ " he asked. 

Clint had no idea what he meant by that, but Bruce seemed to find it funny. Maybe it was some kind of math joke or something. 

"Then it can be a last activity for all of us to share before they graduate," Mr. Coulson said. "Once we get back, you'll all be busy with papers and projects and studying for final exams. Would you like a chance to relax before that?"

"I fail to see how sleeping in tents and being eaten alive by bugs is relaxing," Loki said. "I _detest_ camping."

"Will there be wi-fi?" Tony asked. "Because I am an internet-based life form and I actually cannot survive without my daily dose of Google. I'll get a doctor's note if you don't believe me."

"No doctor is going to write you a note that says that," Pepper snapped. 

"I didn't say it would be a medical doctor," Tony countered, grinning at her. "But I'll make you a deal. I'll go if she goes."

"I'll go if he _doesn't_ ," Pepper replied, glaring at him.

"We're all going," Mr. Coulson said. "Unless any of you are unable to obtain permission from your parent or guardian, we are all going."

Natasha glanced at Clint, who raised his eyebrows. He had no idea if the Sullivans would go for it, but it seemed pretty unlikely that Fury would. After all, Natasha was in protective custody, and he couldn't just leave the school for a day to go on this trip, could he? Not that he watched her all the time or anything, but he kept pretty close tabs. 

"Assistant Principal Hill will be going along as a chaperone for the girls," Mr. Coulson said, "and I will be chaperoning the boys. There are cabins, not tents, so you won't have to worry about sleeping on rocks or wildlife crawling into your sleeping bag with you. It's the Friday and Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, and I promise you, it will be fun, if you'll give it a chance."

*

Which was how they all found themselves loading backpacks and sleeping bags and pillows onto a school bus an hour before most of them would even normally be awake on a Friday morning, finding seats and sprawling out to try and grab a little more sleep while they were en route to this retreat-y, adventure-y, camp-y thing.

They were all pretty much still convinced really was a bad idea, and the weather was doing nothing to discourage that impression. It was cold and rainy, and Tony announced loudly that it was supposed to stay that way. Someone – Clint thought it was Thor – told him to shut up. 

He put his pillow up against the wall and leaned against it, then draped his jacket over himself and Natasha when she tucked herself against his side. She didn't look like she'd slept much the night before, but she hadn't sent him any texts looking for reassurance or companionship in the middle of the night, so maybe it was just that it was too early. 

_You okay?_ he asked her anyway.

Natasha shrugged. _Cold,_ she responded. _Tired. Hungry._

Clint fumbled with his backpack, careful not to dislodge her from where she'd settled against him because they'd discovered that once you found a comfortable position, it was almost impossible to find it again if someone moved. He finally managed to get out a package of Pop-Tarts, which he tore open, offering one to her.

She didn't say thank you, but she didn't need to. 

The ride was long, and most of them slept through it. Clint didn't wake up until the bus started lurching over ruts in the dirt road. He saw a sign for a camp with a vaguely Native American sound to it, so they must be nearly there. He scrubbed at his eyes and stretched, jostling Natasha awake in the process.

_I hope there's coffee,_ Natasha signed. 

_Me too._

There was, and breakfast as well, so by the time their adventure guide or whatever he was calling himself started in on their orientation, they were all in much better shape to put up with his overwhelming enthusiasm. 

"How many of you have ever done high ropes before?" he asked. Clint thought he'd said his name was Rocco or something. "Anybody?"

"Do trapeze count?" Clint asked.

Rocco (or Rocky, or Ricky, or whoever) turned and looked at him, his eyebrows shooting up. "Not exactly, but... you've done trapeze work?"

"A little. Just goofing around. I sucked at it." Clint grinned.

"He was raised in the circus," Tony explained. "He escaped from the freak show. We keep him as a pet."

Clint rolled his eyes and laughed. "Two lies and a truth," he said. "I _was_ raised in the circus. Do you have archery here?"

"Only during summer camp sessions," Rocco (yeah, there it was on his fleece vest, embroidered right under the camp logo) said. "Sorry, buddy."

Clint shrugged. "The equipment is probably crap anyway."

"Clint," Mr. Coulson said warningly.

"What?"

"It's all right," Rocco said. "Is everyone finished here? We'll start with some ground activities, and then we'll have a lesson in belaying and safety, and then we'll move on to our adventure course."

They dragged out breakfast just a little bit longer, but finally Mr. Coulson nudged them up out of their seats so that the day could begin.

At first the only person who seemed to have any real enthusiasm for what they were doing was Thor. Steve tried to put on a good show of it, but it was clear that he had his doubts, either about the group or about his ability to participate, even though he seemed to be wheezing less than usual. Some new drug regimen from his doctor, he'd said a while back when someone had commented about it. Apparently it was working.

As they went along, though, it was hard not to get dragged into the spirit of it. At first it was grudging, because they couldn't move away from the Poison Peanut Butter Pit until they'd all made it from one side to the platform on the other, but after a while, they actually started to work together, and Clint couldn't speak for anyone else, but it actually made him feel pretty good when they finally succeeded.

Their next challenge was a big rope spider web, and the object was to get everyone from one side to the other going through the holes in the web. The catch was that they could only use each hole once, and they couldn't actually touch the ropes when they did it. Some of the holes were pretty small. They got Thor through first, figuring he would be the most challenging, and then Clint and Bruce. 

"I can fit," Natasha insisted, pointing to the smallest opening. "I start through, they take hands, you take feet, keep me level, I can fit." 

"There's no way," Loki said, but they were all thinking it. 

"You not believe me? I prove it."

And she did, just as she'd said, and came out grinning on the other side, and looking rather smug. "Do same with Pepper there," she pointed to the next smallest hole, "and rest is easy."

By the time they finished with the ground work, though, the rain had picked up and it was too dangerous to go up into the trees. By the time it let up, it was getting dark, so they went back to the little cafeteria for dinner, and then were shown to their cabins, where their stuff was waiting.

"Look, there's a fire pit," Thor said. "Can we have a campfire?" 

"As long as it doesn't start pouring again, I don't see why not," Mr. Coulson said, and went to have it arranged for one to be lit for them. He came back with Rocco not long after, who made sure that the pit was clear and sent them off to gather smaller branches to use to get the fire going.

"There better be marshmallows," Tony said as he wandered off into the woods with Bruce at his side to keep him from getting lost. "That's all I'm saying."


	43. Chapter 43

"You are such _boy_!" Natasha said, nudging Clint's side with her elbow as he blew out his third set of marshmallows. "No patience!" 

But she was grinning as she said it, so Clint knew she was teasing. It wasn't like she was completely wrong. He had patience when he needed it, when it mattered, but toasting marshmallows wasn't one of those times. 

"You think you can do better, Miss 'What is s'more?'? You do it!" he teased back, skewering a marshmallow on each of the two points of the forked stick they'd managed to find and handing it to her. He went to get some graham crackers and chocolate (all helpfully supplied by Rocco) so that if she managed to not incinerate the marshmallows, he could show here was a s'more was.

She sat beside the fire, watching the end of the stick intently. She held it just out of the reach of the flames, but not the heat, and slowly, the outsides of the marshmallows turned golden brown. She left them there just a little longer, and then pulled them back and turned to Clint, looking smug. 

"Sure, if you don't mind them taking _forever_ ," he griped, pulling one carefully off. "Maybe I _like_ them Cajun style."

Her forehead furrowed; she didn't understand.

"He means blackened," Steve supplied helpfully. "He's just making excuses to save face."

"Here," Clint said, handing over the cracker, chocolate, and marshmallow sandwich. "Try it."

Natasha took it, eying it suspiciously, but took a bite. Clint laughed at the way her face changed, and reached out to touch her hair, tucking it back so the wind wouldn't blow it into the sticky treat. "Good, huh?"

"Yes, good," she replied. "Much better than if made with charcoal."

"Yeah, yeah." But he let her toast the marshmallows after that, until they were both feeling slightly sick from all of the sugar. She settled next to him on the log, and he slid his arm around her back, not thinking about the fact that there were others around and she might not want him to. It was dark, and everyone was kind of in their own worlds for the moment. 

Thor got up, and came back a minute later with a guitar. Of course he had a guitar.

"Of course you have a guitar," Tony said. "And of course you brought it."

"It wouldn't be a campfire without a sing-along!" Thor declared. "How could I not bring it?"

"Be prepared," Steve said, smiling.

"You're the boy scout, not Thor," Tony pointed out.

"I was a boy scout once," Thor said.

Loki snickered. "Until you and Dad got kicked out for being too competitive when it came to the Pinewood Derby. Spared me having to join, at least. Nicest thing you ever did for me, really." 

Thor looked like he wasn't sure whether he should say thank you or be upset, so he looking down at the guitar instead, testing the strings with his head cocked to the side, tuning it by ear. He started to strum, and although at first there was a lot of eye-rolling, it wasn't long before everyone joined in, even if it was just on the chorus.

Only Clint and Natasha were left out; Natasha because she didn't know the words and Clint because singing wasn't exactly his strong suit when he couldn't hear everything properly. He glanced over at her, and she was staring into the flames. She slid down from the log to sit a little closer to their warmth, and he joined her, sitting behind her so that she could lean back against his chest.

It reminded him of all of the nights they'd spent out in the graveyard together, talking and not talking. She'd fallen asleep in his arms like this once. He wondered if she remembered, if she was thinking of that too. 

He didn't ask. It didn't matter. Maybe she would rather just forget all of that, and maybe she would be better off if she did. He just hoped it didn't mean forgetting him in the process, because he really didn't know...

There was a lull in the music, and a soft voice – Bruce – asked, "Are you scared about graduating?" He was asking Steve, presumably, because Thor wasn't afraid of anything. 

"Not scared exactly," Steve said. "I'm not really going far. I have to – I want to – stay close because of my mom. She needs me."

"How is she?" Bruce asked.

Steve sighed. "Not good. The doctors say that it's a miracle she's made it this long, and she keeps telling them that she's going to my graduation, and that's final. And now... it's less than a month away. Maybe she'll make it. But then..." He shrugged.

"I'm so sorry," Pepper said. 

"Thanks," Steve replied. "We'll see. But anyway, I'm just going to go to the community college for two years and then transfer. It'll save a lot of money that way."

"What are you going for?" Bruce asked.

"Art. And education. I want to be an art teacher, I think. Or, like, an art therapist. So maybe art and psychology. I don't know. I probably won't have to figure it out 'til I transfer."

"You'd be good at that," Pepper said. "Either one."

"Thanks," he said again, and then he fell quiet. 

Clint tightened his arms around Natasha for a moment. It was easy to forget sometimes that they weren't the only ones with problems. She turned her head to look at him, and he could see that she was thinking the same thing. They'd been so wrapped up in themselves and each other lately, everything else had ceased to exist. Being brought back to the reality that they were all in this group for a reason... it made his chest ache.

Loki leaned over and said something to Thor, who started another song, but it did nothing to lighten the mood, and soon after, when Mr. Coulson suggested that it might be time to pack it in for the night, no one argued.

Natasha and Clint were the last ones up, though, and stood looking at each other in the firelight, close enough to touch but not touching. _Will you be okay?_ , Clint asked.

Natasha shrugged. _Will you?_

Neither of them moved, and then both of them did, and Clint held her tight, her fingers digging into the small of his back. His eyes stung and he blinked hard, refusing to give in to the wave of emotion that came out of nowhere. He couldn't quite swallow the lump in his throat as he kissed her forehead, then rested his against it. 

She didn't look at him when she finally let go, and she didn't look back when she walked away.

He'd ended up with the top bunk above Loki, because he was the last one in the cabin, but it didn't matter. Once he'd had his turn in the bathroom he climbed up and curled up in his sleeping back, doubting that he would sleep. 

It was strange, how far away she felt when he knew that she was right next door. 

But he did sleep, because the next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake by Mr. Coulson. _Natasha_ , the social worker signed, because he didn't have his hearing aids in. _Now._

Clint's heart slammed in his chest as he sat up and extricated himself, nearly tripping on the stairs in his haste to get down. Everyone was awake and watching him, and he didn't care. He padded out into the night, and his feet were instantly freezing but he didn't care about that either.

Ms. Hill was there, standing under an umbrella a very unsettled looking Pepper. "Where is she?" he asked.

Pepper pointed to the cabin, and Clint saw that her lips were moving but he couldn't hear the words, and without any sound cues, reading someone's lips was a crapshoot at best. He just went to the cabin door and pulled it open. No one stopped him.

Natasha was sitting on the edge of her bunk, her arms wrapped around herself, staring blankly ahead. 

"'Tasha?" She didn't respond, so Clint approached carefully, making sure she could see him (if she was seeing anything at all other than whatever horror flick was playing behind her wide-open eyes) as he knelt down in front of her. "'Tasha, what's wrong?"

Nothing. Her gaze didn't even flicker. It was if she was as deaf as he was and blind on top of it. He reached out and took her hands, squeezing them gently, shaking them, trying to get some kind of reaction out of her, but it was as if she was just... gone. Like what sat in front of him was just an empty shell she'd left behind.

It scared the shit out of him.

He stood up without letting go of her hands, tugging her up with him. She gave him no resistance, and when he led her toward the door, she followed. He didn't know what he was doing, and wasn't stuff like this Mr. Coulson's job? Shouldn't he have some trick up his sleeve to snap her out of this? He was the damned professional, wasn't he? 

He took a deep breath and led her out into the rain. Ms. Hill approached with the umbrella, but he shook his head. He let go of Natasha's hands and held her by her upper arms instead, his grip gentle, just enough to keep her steady. The rain soaked through his t-shirt and dripped from his chin. He blinked it out of his eyes, watching Natasha's face for any sign of... anything.

After what felt like hours but was probably only a couple of minutes – long enough for them both to be soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone, but not long enough for the adults to intervene – he felt her shudder, and then her eyes closed and she tipped up her face, letting rain trace patterns down her face, obscuring the tears that he could feel from the way her shoulders shook.

Clint pulled her closer, a little at a time until their bodies were pressed together all the way down, tight so that when she breathed he could feel it, not just against his neck but in her belly against his. "It's okay," he whispered, his lips to her ear. "It's okay now."

She might have said something in return, or maybe it was a kiss or maybe it was nothing at all. Slowly, she pulled away far enough to form words between their bodies, her hands brushing his chest. _Sorry._

_Don't be._ And then when she didn't say anything, _Do you want to talk about it?_

Natasha shook her head. She had finally noticed that they weren't alone, that Mr. Coulson and Ms. Hill were watching them. Clint figured they must have sent Pepper inside. She put a little more space between them. _I had a nightmare. I must have woken them. I didn't mean to._

_It's okay now?_ The way his eyebrows arched turned it into a question.

_I hope._

_You know where I am if you need me._

_I know._ Natasha looked up at him, trying and failing to smile at him, to reassure him somehow. Maybe if they didn't have an audience she would have done more, but he could imagine she probably already felt too exposed. _Good night._

_Good night, 'Tasha._

Neither of them wanted to be the first to look away, but finally Clint broke the stalemate because otherwise they probably would have stood there indefinitely, awkward in their silence with so many eyes on them (because he was sure that the other boys were watching through the cabin window, wondering what was happening). 

When he went back inside, he just changed into dry pajamas (glad now that they'd been encouraged t pack extra because of the forecasted rain, and that he'd actually listened for once) and went back to bed. They had questions and he wasn't going to answer them. Let Mr. Coulson deal with it if it needed dealing with. He was tired. He turned his back on everyone and shut his eyes tight.

He didn't know if the social worker ended up telling them anything, but in the morning no one said anything about it to him, or to Natasha, and they both tried to pretend that it hadn't happened. They had their breakfast and drank more coffee than was probably a good idea, and then, because the weather was a little better today, they all headed out to the high ropes adventure course.

Which, as it turned out, was actually a lot of fun, and even though the group argued over the best way to do things some of the time, with a little bit of trial and error, and a lot of trusting each other even when it seemed like it was probably a very bad idea to do so, they got through it.

The bus trip home was quiet. Most of them slept, just as they had on the way there. When they arrived back at the school, parents (and guardians) were waiting to meet them, and they went their separate ways.

_Talk to you later?_ , Natasha asked, glancing over at Principal Fury as she shouldered her backpack.

_Any time you need me,_ Clint responded.

_Thank you._ She smiled, and it was a little more convincing this time. Even so, Clint wished he could go with her. He got into the Sullivans car, glad that it was Mr. Sullivan who had come to get one. At least he would be spared too many questions. He didn't much feel like talking.


	44. Chapter 44

It was the last official day of school. Starting on Monday, they would have finals, and graduation was next Saturday. The room was too hot with all of them in it, and everyone's expressions were grim at best, even Steve's. Clint was trying not to think about the fact that this meant he was going to be seeing even less of Natasha than he had in the last few weeks since her relocation to Fury's place. There were no more midnight meetings in the cemetery, no impromptu coffee dates. In a way, it was worse than when she'd been living with her uncle. 

He hated himself for thinking it, but a part of him couldn't help wishing there had been another way for them to keep her safe that didn't mean that pretty much the only time he saw her was in school.

"Does anyone have any plans for the summer?" Mr. Coulson asked. 

"I'll be getting ready for college," Thor offered. "My mother is making a much bigger deal of it than I think it should be. How hard can it be, living away from home?"

"At least you get to leave," Loki snapped. "I'm stuck here." 

"But isn't that what you want?" Bruce asked, his tone uncharacteristically acid. "You complain they don't give you enough attention, that you live in Thor's shadow. Well, he'll be gone, and you'll get to be an only child. Then all of their attention will be on you. You should be happy."

Loki opened his mouth, then closed it, his eyebrows knitting together. "Not all attention is good attention," he said after a few seconds. "I would think _you_ of all people would know that."

"Me of all people?" Bruce countered. "Just what exactly do you mean by me _of all people_?" He was half out of his chair, and Steve and Thor moved to block him if he lunged.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Coulson said, "that's enough."

"No, it's not enough!" Bruce snapped. "I want to know what he meant by that. Why he thinks that I, _of all people_ , would understand why him getting what he wants is somehow a bad thing. I want to know why he can never be satisfied with what he's got, why he always needs to bitch and moan and demand more, like he's the center of the universe or something, or at least thinks he should be. Why he thinks I'm even the tiniest little bit like him that I would understand anything that he thinks or says or feels. All _I_ want is to be left alone!"

"By who?" Mr. Coulson asked. 

Bruce was breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he turned to glare at Coulson. "What?"

"Who do you want to be left alone by?"

"Everyone!" Bruce growled. "I just want to be left alone by everyone! I didn't ask to be here! This is all stupid!"

There was something in his eyes that made Clint pretty sure that now would be the time for the social worker to back off, unless he really wanted to be the recipient of a fist to the face. Shouldn't Mr. Coulson see that? Shouldn't he know when he'd pushed something as far as it could safely go?

"Do you want to be left alone by your friends?" Mr. Coulson asked. 

Everyone held their breath as Bruce turned, one arm raised like he meant to swing. Then, slowly, he let it drop, collapsing back into his seat and into himself. It was like he was actually shrinking right in front of them. "It doesn't matter what I want." 

"What do you mean by that?" Mr. Coulson asked. 

"I thought—" Tony started, but Mr. Coulson raised a hand and for once Tony actually obeyed the signal for him to be quiet.

"Bruce?"

"Nothing," Bruce mumbled. "I don't mean anything."

"Yes you do," Mr. Coulson said. "You're not the type of person who says things and doesn't mean anything by them."

_Just leave him alone,_ Clint wanted to say. He didn't want to talk, and what good was forcing him to, especially in front of everyone, going to do? He'd actually started to respect the social worker somewhere along the way. Look what he'd done for Natasha. But now...

"I mean that even if I didn't want to be left alone by my friends, I would be anyway," Bruce said finally. "It doesn't matter. Can I go? I need to study."

"Who's leaving you?" Tony asked. "No one's leaving." He tossed the words out blithely, and braced himself for another explosion. "Or, I should say, no one is leaving without you. Because I'm assuming that when you say your friends, you actually mean me – no offense," he said, glancing at the rest of them. "I'm going to camp at MIT all summer," he explained. "But so are you," he said, nudging Bruce. 

Bruce looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "I'm not—"

"Of course you are!" Tony said. "As if I was going to go by myself. Where's the fun in that? I took the liberty of filling out an application for you, since you said that you couldn't apply yourself. I figured that you'd smashed your keyboard in a fit of academic rage or something. I didn't want you to miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so I took care of it for you." He grinned. "You're welcome, buddy."

"Tony, I can't..." Bruce started, his cheeks flushed. "There's no way my dad can..."

"Afford it?" Tony suggested. "I took care of that, too. See, Stark Technologies just happens to offer scholarships for these sorts of programs for promising young scientists, so I did that application for you, too, figuring that you might not be able to because of the aforementioned keyboard affliction. That's not what they mean by keysmash, buddy, just for the record. And they liked it so much they're paying your way."

"You can't just do that!" Bruce said, his face and ears so red it looked like they might spontaneously burst into flames. "Someone else might have needed that money more than I did! You can't just make sure that you get your own way all the time, Tony!"

The smile slid from Tony's face. "I didn't," he said. "I just put in the application for you. That's all. No strings were pulled, except to make sure that we get to room together, and that was only after. They chose you for the program and the scholarship. I swear."

"My dad won't let me go," Bruce said. "There's no way."

"We'll figure that part out," Tony said. "But you have to come. It won't be half as much fun without you."

Bruce looked dubious, but he let the fight go... for now. Clint suspected that this wasn't the end of it. 

Silence settled over the group, and they all stared at their shoes or the walls or anything but each other.

"Anyone else have plans?" Mr. Coulson asked. "Clint? Natasha?"

"Probably summer school," Clint said. "Unless I do good on my finals." His grades had slipped this past semester as he tried to deal with everything going on with Natasha, and it was going to take some kind of miracle to get him a passing grade in a couple of classes. "And if I'm not in summer school, the Sullivans want me to get a job."

Want wasn't even really the word. Insisted was more accurate. They'd told him that if he wasn't in summer school – and they really hoped that he wasn't – that he would need to get a job, because they weren't going to let him just sit around all summer and do nothing. 

"I don't know," Natasha said. "Is..." She just shrugged. Clint knew that the trial was likely to happen this summer, and who knew how much time that was going to eat up. They hadn't talked much about their plans for the summer. 

"I'm working at a summer camp," Steve said. "It's a day camp, and if anyone is interested, we're actually still looking for counselors. The pay isn't great, but it's not terrible, either. I've got some applications on me if anyone is interested." He reached down into his backpack and pulled out a folder, looking right at Clint and Natasha.

"I ain't good with kids," Clint said. 

"You don't have to be," Steve said. "I'm sure that there's stuff you can do that doesn't involve too much contact with them, like working in the kitchens or something. It can't hurt to take an application and look it over, right?" He slipped a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Clint. 

He still wasn't sure, but he took it. It would be better than working in a fast food place or something, probably, and wasn't that pretty much the only other option open to kids his age? He wasn't surprised (well, maybe a little) that Natasha took one as well when Steve offered it. 

It would certainly make the summer better if he still got to see her every day... even if it might mean dealing with kids every day. 

"If anyone else wants one, just let me know," Steve said, and tucked the folder back into his backpack. "I've worked there before, and it's really a lot of fun." 

When the bell rang, they all gathered their things, but suddenly everyone seemed hesitant to leave. This would be the last time that they would all be together, Clint realized. Next year – if Mr. Coulson kept the group going – Thor and Steve would be gone. Would they be replaced by others? Whether they were or weren't, it wouldn't be the same. And for all that they'd fought it every step of the way, the time they spent in this room had become a sort of safe haven for them. 

It was Loki who finally left first, pushing past everyone to walk out the door, his shoulders square and his chin up like nothing bothered him. But Clint had seen it in his face too, the doubt about what was to come. 

One by one, they left, and as usual he and Natasha were last. She held up the application, one eyebrow raised. _Are you going to do it?_ , she asked.

_I will if you will._

_I don't know if I can,_ she replied. _I have to ask Fury._

_Let me know,_ he said. _It won't matter if I end up in summer school anyway._

_You won't_ , Natasha told him. 

_How do you know?_

_We're going to study this weekend. All weekend if we have to. You'll pass. So will I._

He hadn't asked her what her grades were like, but if his had tanked because of what was happening to her, what must it have done to hers? She was smarter than him, he figured, but she was also trying to do everything in a language she was still learning, and with everything else going on, when had she even had time to do homework? 

_I'm not letting him ruin my summer,_ she told him. _He's done enough. This is how we fight back._

Her expression was so fierce it was almost comical. He threw her a salute. "Aye aye, Captain."

For a second, it was clear she had no idea how to react. In the end, she did what she usually did when she didn't know what to do with him. She rolled her eyes and fought back a smile. _Idiot._


	45. Chapter 45

"I can't thank you all enough," Mrs. Rogers said, holding out a hand that she let drop when it became clear that neither of them were going to take it. Instead she just smiled. "This means more to me than I hope you'll ever know, because I hope you'll never be in this position."

Clint shifted his weight from one foot to the other, bumping against Natasha in the process. "It was Tony's idea," he mumbled. "If it was one of us, Steve would do it, so..." He shrugged. "I gotta get this set up." He hefted the bag he carried, which contained a laptop and a small camera, lent to them by Tony. 

"It doesn't matter whose idea it was," Mrs. Rogers told them. "I'm just glad to know that Steve has such good friends. He's going to need you when... well, after." Her smile faltered, and it took her a moment to restore it.

They'd been the ones assigned to go to Steve's mother's hotel room, because it wasn't safe for Natasha to be at the graduation ceremony. When they were in school, there was control of who came into the building. At a public graduation ceremony held on the school football field, anyone could just wander in, and there was a chance that trouble could come looking for her there. So instead they were here.

He knew that it made him a coward, but Clint looked away. He knew what Mrs. Rogers was saying, and he didn't really want to have to deal with it right now. He turned his attention to the electronics, leaving Natasha to deal with the human element.

"I brought..." Clint glanced over as Natasha spoke, saw her holding up a small zippered bag. She unzipped it to reveal its contents: make-up. "I thought you would want to look..." She waved her hand, not having the words, or not wanting to offend Mrs. Rogers, or something.

"You must be Natasha," Mrs. Rogers said. "And that must mean you're Clint." The both nodded mutely. "Steve's told me about you – all of you. He says you two are very close. Inseparable, practically." She turned to look at Natasha. "It's good. It's good to have someone to be close to."

" _Da_ ," Natasha said. "Yes. Is good. You want?" She held up the make-up again.

"Ah, yes. Yes, I want to look my best. I wanted to be there in person, but it's just... it's not possible. The doctors didn't believe me when I said that I would go to my son's graduation, that there was nothing in the world – not even terminal cancer – that would keep me from it. And look, there isn't. Not with the wonders of technology. And isn't it something? I never would have dreamed, when I was your age, that it would be possible – not just possible, but _easy_ , to be in two places at once. Well, close enough to." She managed a weak laugh, which turned into a cough then a sigh. 

She was quiet while Natasha worked, applying makeup with a deft touch, so that when she was done she didn't actually look made up, just... healthy. Healthier, anyway. Clint didn't think there was anything that could truly hide the fact that the woman was dying now. 

They'd had to look hospice up, he and Natasha, when they'd been told that that's where Steve's mom was. It was where people went when they were too sick to go home, but they weren't going to live, either. It was where people went to be made comfortable while they died. And no matter how homey they tried to make the place feel, it made Clint's skin crawl.

"Get that blue scarf there," Mrs. Rogers said, pointing. "We'll tie it over my head so there's no glare off the top of my skull." She laughed again, and Clint assumed it must be a joke, but it wasn't funny. Gallows humor, he guessed. If you don't laugh you'll cry. 

Natasha retrieved the scarf and did as Mrs. Rogers asked. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, reaching out to take Natasha's hand and squeezing it. 

"Is nothing," Natasha said, gently removing her hand from the woman's grasp as soon as she could politely do so. She put away the makeup case and came over to Clint. "How is going?" she asked.

"I think it's all set," Clint said. "I just need to connect here." He typed in the address of the private stream that Tony and Bruce were setting up at the graduation ceremony, and was relieved when Tony's face popped up on screen.

"There you are!" Tony said. "Got everything ready?"

"You can see us okay?" Clint asked. 

"Yeah, I can see you, although you're going to want to make sure that it's focused on Mrs. Rogers so that when we put her up on the big screen he'll—"

"What do you mean, put me up on the big screen?" Mrs. Rogers asked. "I thought I was just watching the ceremony."

"Let me see her," Tony said, and Clint adjusted everything so that Steve's mother could see the laptop screen, and Tony could see her. "Hi Mrs. Rogers! You're looking lovely today. Did you do something new with your hair?"

She laughed, and it was a wheezing kind of sound that made Clint cringe, but didn't seem to faze Tony. "I did. Natasha does good work, doesn't she?"

"You look ten years younger," Tony said. "But yeah, big screen. You're going to be famous, so you'd better be ready for your close-up." His smile never wavered, and Clint didn't know how he could do it. 

Except this wasn't Tony's first rodeo, so to speak, was it? He'd told them once that his mother had died, so he'd been through this before. Maybe that was how he could grin and bear it. Probably that was what made him think of this in the first place. For all that he could be selfish and arrogant, when push came to shove, he usually came through, at least in Clint's experience. 

"I'm not sure..." Mrs. Rogers said. 

"For most of the ceremony, you'll just be watching," Tony explained. "But when he gives his speech, we've got a screen rigged up so that we can project you and he'll know that you're here. He'll be able to see you. I thought... I thought you'd like that. Both of you." 

"Yes," Mrs. Rogers said. "Yes, I'd like that."

"Good. It's settled then. Clint, just make sure the camera doesn't get jostled or anything. The focus is good the way it is, so just don't mess with anything. We'll take care of everything on this end."

"Got it," Clint said. But he knew he would have to stick around in case of technical difficulties, much as he wanted to get out of there and at least go wander the halls for a bit. He hated hospitals. This wasn't the one that he'd been in after the accident, but it didn't matter. It looked the same, felt the same, _smelled_ the same... It tied his stomach in knots so bad he thought he might lose his breakfast.

"Looks like we're getting started," Tony said. "See you after, okay?"

"Okay," Clint said. 

"Did you want to watch?" Mrs. Rogers asked. "You can pull over that chair there."

Clint looked at Natasha, who looked back, giving him a slight nod. When he didn't move, she quickly signed, _I think she wants us to watch with her._

_I don't—_

_You have to be here anyway,_ Natasha pointed out. _Just get the chair._

Mrs. Rogers looked at them curiously, but didn't ask. Clint sighed and dragged over the armchair, which is where he assumed Steve sat when he was there. He sat down, and Natasha settled beside him. The chair wasn't really big enough for two, so she was half in his lap. 

He slipped his arm around her waist, and hers rested over his shoulders. The warmth and weight of her was a comfort, and he tried to just think about that.

The ceremony was long and boring, and he started to fidget only a few minutes in. But Natasha kept him in place, which had probably been why she'd done it in the first place. He couldn't bolt with her on top of him.

Finally, Principal Fury introduced the class valedictorian, Steve Rogers, and he got up to make his speech. He stood for a moment at the lectern, shuffling notes, and then looked up... and stopped dead. They could see everyone turning to look at the back of the field.

"We just put you on screen," Tony said. "I didn't think he'd be quite _this_ shocked. Hopefully he won't forget his entire speech." He laughed, but it sounded a bit nervous.

Mrs. Rogers waved, beaming at her son with tears in her eyes. 

Steve cleared his throat. "That's, uh, that's my mom, everyone. She couldn't be here so... so... well, there she is. Um. Right." He looked back down at his notes, and it looked like he was struggling to get himself together. Finally, though, he took a deep breath, and launched into the speech that he'd prepared. 

Clint didn't really hear it; he wasn't paying attention. He was too busy watching Mrs. Rogers as tears slid down her face, although she was smiling the entire time. He finally tore his eyes away to look at Natasha, who had her own eyes closed. 

"'Tasha," he whispered against her ear, so that she looked at him. _You okay?_

She put her finger to her lips, then his, and he didn't know what she meant, exactly, except obviously that he should be quiet. This wasn't about them, after all; it was about Steve and his mom, and doing something good for a friend.

Finally the ceremony ended and all of the grads threw their hats in the air like they were in some kind of cliché movie, and Natasha got up to help Clint disconnect everything and pack it up.

"Thank you," Mrs. Rogers said. "Both of you. All of you. That was..." She shook her head. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Clint mumbled, and Natasha nodded. 

"Come here," she said, holding out her arms. Natasha went first, and allowed herself to be folded into the woman's embrace. Mrs. Rogers held her tight and for what seemed like a very long time to Clint. Then it was his turn. 

"You hold on tight to her," she said quietly into his ear. "She needs you."

"Yes ma'am," Clint said. She had to mean Natasha, but how did she know? Had Steve told her something? But what did _he_ know? Not that it mattered. He didn't plan to let go any time soon. It was a relief when Mrs. Rogers released him, and he took a step back. 

"I know that Steve is going to come see me, but I'm going to tell him to go be with his friends. I hope that you're all planning something fun for the day, because I'm sure this wasn't it." She smiled at them both. 

"I'm sure Tony has something planned," Clint said. 

"Good. He needs to have fun. There will be plenty of time for seriousness later. You only graduate high school once." Mrs. Rogers looked back and forth between them. "You'll make sure that he does, won't you?"

"Yes ma'am," Clint said. 

"Thank you." She leaned back against her pillows and pressed a button, and a moment later her eyes slipped closed. 

It took Clint a minute to realize that it was probably pain medication that she'd just taken, and that she'd probably been holding out on taking it to keep alert. He reached for Natasha's hand and squeezed it tightly, leading her through the halls and out.

He'd never been so happy to see the sun in this life.


	46. Chapter 46

"I can't do this," Clint said, tugging at his collar, trying to make space between it and his neck. He yanked on his tie, loosening it, then unfastened the button, gulping in air. "'Tasha, I can't do this."

"Yes you can," she said, looking at him through the mirror. "You will."

"No. I don't do funerals. It's not even—"

She turned on him then, and her expression was enough to stop him. "Steve is friend to us. We owe him this."

They'd gone to the wake the night before, to show their support, and Clint didn't see why they had to go to the funeral, too. Steve had family there, aunts and uncles or whatever, people whose responsibility it was to look out for him. It wasn't their job. 

Except Natasha seemed to think that it was. She slipped the collar button back through its hole, then straightened his tie, sliding the knot back up to where it belonged. Her hands stayed there, resting on either side of his neck, and her thumbs stroked his jaw. "Look at me."

He couldn't look at her. He didn't want to, because he knew that once he did, he would lose the argument that they were only sort of having. He didn't know how to say no to her... especially when she was right. 

"Look at me," she repeated, and he lifted his eyes to meet hers. "You _can_ do this," she told him. "We can. Steve shouldn't be alone. I will be there with you whole time."

His hands came up between them, one index finger pressed to his lips and then the flat of his palm coming to rest on the side of his opposite fist. _Promise?_

Natasha nodded, pushing herself up on her toes slightly to seal it with a kiss. Clint slipped his arms around her and held her tight until Mr. Sullivan called up to them, "Are you two ready to go? Mr. Fury is waiting."

Clint loosened his grip enough to let Natasha rest back on her heels. He cocked his head in silent question, and she nodded again. She slipped her hand into his as they made their way downstairs and out to the waiting car, and only let go long enough to fasten her seatbelt.

"You guys didn't have to come," Steve said when he saw them approaching. He was standing outside the funeral home, his hands in his pockets. When they'd arrived, he'd been staring up at the sky, and Clint wondered if he believed that his mother was up there looking down on him now. Maybe he did, and maybe she was. He didn't know, but it seemed pretty cold comfort regardless. "But thank you for coming."

"What are friends for?" Clint said. "I'm real sorry about your mom. She was a nice lady."

"Thank you," Steve said. "I'm glad that you got to meet her, and she got to meet you. I still can't believe what you all did last week." Clint thought what flickered across his face might have been an attempt at a smile, but it didn't quite make it. "The others are inside if you want to..." 

The sentence trailed off, and Clint took it as a signal that Steve would rather be alone. Natasha must have taken it the same way, because she remained beside him as he stepped into the dimly lit, air-conditioned gloom of Mrs. Rogers' second-to-last resting place.

Tony and Bruce were there, talking about something that Clint was sure he wouldn't have been able to understand even if he'd been able to hear it. Thor was there, too, and – surprisingly – Loki. Clint didn't know the people that they (really Thor, with Loki looking vaguely annoyed half a step behind him) were talking to, and he didn't try to join their conversation.

"There is seat there," Natasha said, pointing. 

"Yeah, okay," Clint replied, following her and sitting down, a barely controlled collapse like a puppet that had had a few of its strings cut. But it wasn't okay. Nothing about any of this was okay. He'd barely slept the night before, and for once he'd gotten the feeling that he was the one keeping Natasha up all night with text messages, rather than the other way around.

She didn't try to talk to him now, and he was glad of it. Silence was easier... so much so that when everyone was settling into their seats and the priest or whoever got up in front of everyone he turned off his hearing aids. He glanced at Natasha and she gave him the faintest of smiles. _It's okay,_ she told him.

He zoned out, unfocusing his eyes and trying to make his mind blank. Natasha squeezed his hand to let him know when it was over. _Now the cemetery,_ she told him. 

He wanted to ask her again why this was necessary, why she felt like this was something that they had to do. Steve was their friend, yeah, sure, but this was _torture_ and how could she stand it? How could anyone stand it? This wasn't how they did things where he came from. There were no preachers, no solemn lines of people giving their condolences to the family, no suits and ties and hats with veils... 

Mostly, where he came from, there was a lot of alcohol when they lost one of their own. That's what he remembered. Not that he'd lost anyone he was close to...

Except his parents. And his brother, although he wasn't actually dead, unless he was, and how would Clint know? Except for everyone and everything he'd ever known up until just about a year ago now.

Shit.

At the cemetery, Steve stood beside the hole in the ground that would soon swallow the coffin that held what was left of his mother. The idea of being buried in a box under six feet of earth made Clint shudder. He watched as Thor, with Loki still trailing him, took up a place beside Steve. It probably should have gone to family, but no one objected. Steve looked up at him as the big blonde's hand closed on his shoulder and managed a small smile. Thor nodded and smiled back.

A little way away, Tony and Bruce stood, shoulder to shoulder and although he couldn't be sure, it looked to Clint like they were actually leaning against each other like they needed the presence of the other to prop themselves up again. 

He kind of knew the feeling. 

They found a place nearby, and Natasha finally let go of Clint's hand, but only to slip her arm around his waist. His circled her shoulders, pulling her in. As people started to speak Clint tuned out again. At one point Natasha's head came to rest on his shoulder, so he tipped his head and pressed his cheek to her hair, and so they remained until it was over.

_What happens now?_ , he asked as the group began to disperse. The coffin was gone now, and how had he missed that? 

_A reception, I think,_ Natasha replied. 

_Do we—_ But he didn't get a chance to finish the question, because Thor approached them then. 

"Steve has asked us not to go to the reception," he said. "He says that he needs to deal with family stuff, and he doesn't want us there." He managed to keep his voice low enough that it didn't draw attention, which was an accomplishment for him. "We're going to meet him later instead, once all of this is over."

"Where?" Natasha asked.

"A beach. Tony is going to send us all directions."

"Okay," Clint said, glad that they would finally have the chance to escape all of this. He wasn't sure how much more he could take, even with Natasha at his side. The determination that had been in her eyes earlier had given way to something else, something he couldn't quite identify except that it seemed sharp-edged and brittle. "Thanks."

"Of course," Thor said. "I'll see you later."

They spent the afternoon curled up together in Natasha's room, theoretically watching movies but mostly napping. If the Sullivans had a problem with it, Clint never heard about it. He assumed that Mr. Fury must have talked to them at some point, though, because he drove both of them to the beach that evening, and Clint was pretty sure that he wouldn't have done it without getting some kind of foster-parental seal of approval first. 

Tony already had a fire going on the beach, and there was a cooler with soda and beer and more liquor than any 15-year-old should have access to. He waved to them and told them to help themselves. There was food, too. It wasn't until Clint saw it that he realized he was starving.

Steve was the last to arrive, and by the time he got there it was dark, and they were all starting to wonder if he was going to show up at all. He went straight to the cooler and got out a beer, and they all watched, frozen in shock, as he opened it and chugged half of it before even saying hello.

It wasn't much of a party, really, with only the seven of them there. But there was music and fire and alcohol, which was probably a bad combination, but what the hell are you supposed to do when you're throwing a party as a show of support for a friend whose only remaining parent just died?

"I would like to propose a toast!" Tony called, standing on top of the cooler, teetering slightly. "So everyone get a drink!"

"You're on the cooler," Loki pointed out. "How can we get drinks when you're standing on them?"

"Oh, right," Tony said, hopping down. " _Now_ everyone get a drink!"

Once they were all fortified with alcohol, Tony jumped back up... and nearly fell off the other side. Thor caught him before he could topple, and Tony grinned his thanks. "Toast! Everyone raise your glass or bottle or whatever you have!" He peered into the flickering shadows, making sure that they were all doing as commanded. "To Mrs. Rogers," he said. "Who defied the doctors and the odds. Wherever you are, Mrs. Rogers, I hope that there's no more pain, and... and hey, if you could do me a favor? If you see my mom, could you tell her... just tell her I said hi, okay?"

He stumbled back down again, and away from everyone. After a second, Bruce followed.

"Fuck." Clint sank down on the sand as Tony's words sank in. " _Fuck._ "

Tony's mother was dead. So was Bruce's. Now Steve had lost both of his parents. So had he. So had Natasha. Only Thor still had both of his parents living, and Loki, sort of, except what about his birth parents that he was so obsessed with?

_Are you okay?_ , Natasha asked.

_My parents are dead,_ Clint replied. 

_I know. I'm sorry._

_I'm not._

It was shitty, but it was true, and what the hell was he supposed to do with that? He'd lost his family a year ago and he'd never even really felt it, never felt much of anything about it except pissed off, and what kind of person did that make him? Family was supposed to be the most important thing; that's what he'd always been told.

Natasha looked at him, studying him for a long time, and finally signed, _I understand._

And maybe she did. 

Maybe family _was_ the most important thing; it was just that his definition of what made a family had changed. So he took Natasha's hand and picked himself up to go join their friends.


	47. Chapter 47

"I'm going to Natasha's," Clint told Mrs. Sullivan when she came to pick him up on Friday afternoon. The boys were all already in the back of the minivan, shouting and throwing things at each other. The last thing he wanted was to become part of that mess. He already dealt with it all day. At least at the camp he was being paid for it.

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Sullivan said. 

"I said I'm going to Natasha's. I guess I probably should have called you before to say you didn't have to pick me up, but I got busy and forgot." It was a lie, and she probably knew it, but he didn't care. No matter what he said it was going to turn into an argument.

"That's not how it works, Clinton. Get in the car. I need to get the boys home."

"So get them home," he told her. "I'm—"

"No, you're not. Not without arranging things beforehand, and especially not with that attitude. I know that you're used to having a lot of independence, but that's not how things work here in the real world. As long as you're living under our roof, you will obey our rules, which means that when you want to do something, you ask. You don't get to just tell us what you're doing and expect that to be okay." Her jaw was set, and he could see the veins bulging slightly at the sides of her neck. 

"We already asked Mr. Fury and it's cool with him. I'll get a ride home later. Come on. We're celebrating surviving our first week of h—camp. Some of our other friends are coming, too. I know it's last minute, but you don't gotta do anything except say yes." Clint didn't bother to try and turn on the charm that used to get him cut a lot of slack with women her age, who thought he was young and cute and they just wanted to pinch his cheeks. There wasn't any point with her; she saw right through him.

She didn't want to give in. She wanted to win the argument because he knew that she felt like they'd lost too many with him already. (He'd overheard her telling Mr. Sullivan so once.) But he'd mostly been good lately, and the boys were getting more and more restless in the back, and it wasn't like she could actually get out and _force_ him into the car.

In other words, Clint had the upper hand. He knew it, and he was going to use it. She might find some way to make him pay for it later, but right now, there was pretty much no way for her to win without causing some kind of major scene.

"You will be home by nine o'clock," she told him. "If you are even one minute late, you will be grounded for a week."

He didn't snort. As if grounding would stop him from doing whatever he wanted? But he knew when not to push his luck. "Yes ma'am," he said. "Nine o'clock."

She looked at him hard for a minute more, then drove off. Clint grinned and went to join Natasha and Steve, who were waiting for him at Steve's car. "I told you it'd be fine," he said, slipping his arm around Natasha. She shrugged him off, wrinkling her nose. He scrunched his face up back at her so that she'd laugh. 

"We have to stop at store for things first," she said. "Mr. Fury says we can use grill." 

"Aw yeah," Clint said. "Cooking with fire."

"I hope you are better at grill than campfire," Natasha said. "I think I would not like my dinner to be turn into coal." 

"It's no problem to stop," Steve said. "And... thanks. For, y'know, inviting me. You didn't have to do that."

Clint almost made a joke about how orphans needed to stick together, but Steve's mother had only been gone a week; it was probably too soon for him to find it funny. "Hey, you helped us get jobs. We gotta do something to thank you," he said.

Steve smiled. "Hop in."

"Shotgun," Clint called, and then they had to explain what it meant to Natasha. 

"Why is called 'shotgun'?" she asked as Steve pulled out of the parking lot, waving to some of the other counselors. 

"Because it used to be when people had horses and wagons or carriages or whatever, there were all these highwaymen who would stop 'em and rob 'em. So you'd have your passengers or whatever inside, and then you'd have a driver and the person who sat next to them had a shotgun to shoot any highwaymen. So the person who sits next to the driver calls shotgun." He craned his neck to look at her.

"Is true?" she asked Steve.

"You don't believe me?" Clint asked, feigning offense.

"I don't believe anything you say," Natasha teased. 

"I think he's actually right on that one," Steve said. "So I guess he must tell the truth sometimes."

"Gotta keep 'em guessing," Clint said. Natasha rolled her eyes, but Steve smiled a little, which made it worth it.

It felt a little weird, awkward, hanging out with him, when they were so used to it being just the two of them all the time. But Tony and Bruce were off to camp and they didn't really know what Thor was up to, and the idea of Steve just sitting at home alone was depressing. Maybe he still had relatives around, but it had to be they were driving him crazy by now if they were. 

At least, Clint imagined they would be. He didn't have a lot of experience with extended family, but he knew what it was like in the circus when someone lost someone, and how people would be all over them for a while, wanting to make sure they were okay, and in a way he was grateful that he'd been left behind because he wasn't sure how he would have dealt with that. 

Anyway, Steve seemed to be trying to have as normal a life as he could. He came to work every day and always had a smile for everyone. Clint really wasn't sure how he did it. But now it was the weekend and he wouldn't have that to escape to for a few days, so they'd decided that maybe it would be nice for him to have a little more time with people before being left alone with his thoughts.

They stopped at the store, and ended up buying more food than they probably needed... but then again they were three teenagers, so maybe not. Then they made their way to Fury's house, which despite the fact that Natasha had been living there for almost two months they still thought of as Fury's house. She'd settled in all right, but it was still felt weird, knowing they were in their principal's house.

"I got the grill started. Do either of you actually know how to use one?" Mr. Fury asked, looking for Clint to Steve and back again.

Natasha crossed her arms. "Why you do not ask me? You think because I am girl I don't know?"

Fury looked at her and smiled. "No, I think because you're _Russian_ you don't know, because how are you going to grill in the snow?"

"It is not snowing _all_ the time," she said, fighting back a smirk. "For two weeks in July is summer."

"Well then, excuse me. Do you know how to use a grill, Miss Romanova?"

"No. Why I would know that? I am Russian."

Steve looked between the two of them, then at Clint and finally cracked a smile because he realized that the whole exchange had been a joke. "I don't have much experience with a grill," he admitted. "But I know all about food safety."

"You have a badge for that?" Clint asked. 

"Actually, yes," Steve said. 

Clint rolled his eyes. "I know how to use a grill. I've done it plenty of times."

"All right. I'll leave you guys to it. Just make sure you leave something for me to eat," Mr. Fury said.

"See?" Clint said when they were in the yard and he'd put some hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill. "This is why I like coming here. He actually treats us like we're old enough to do things for ourselves."

"Did Mrs. Sullivan give you hard time?" Natasha asked.

"Kinda. I need to save up my money and get myself a car. Then even if she doesn't want to take me somewhere I can just drive myself," Clint said. "Oh, and I gotta be home by nine or I'm grounded." 

"I'll drive you home," Steve said. 

"Thanks." Clint poked at the hot dogs, rolling them so that they would grill evenly. The hardest part about grilling was being patient about it. Of course, he was used to cooking for a lot more people so there was always something to do. 

"Do you know how to drive?" Natasha asked. 

"Yeah. I've been driving since I was big enough to reach the pedals of the beat up old trucks we had around," he said. 

"Do you have a license?" Steve asked.

"Not exactly," Clint said. "But that's just a technicality. I'll get one, and a car. Then I can teach you to drive," he told Natasha. 

"That's a scary thought," Steve said.

"Says you!" Clint protested, jabbing the barbecue tongs in his direction. "You've never even seen me drive. I'm awesome!" 

"It would be nice to be able to just get up and go," Natasha said. "Sometimes I feel... trapped."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Clint said. "I've got the Sullivans breathing down my neck all the time, telling me what to do and when to do it and saying I can't do this or that or I can't go wherever because they don't have the time to take me."

"If you guys ever need a ride somewhere, you can give me a call," Steve said. "I don't mind, and it's not like I have places I need to be anymore."

Which brought the conversation to a halt for a moment. Clint could tell that Steve hadn't meant for it to come across that way, and he struggled for something to say. Natasha recovered first, though, and filled the silence with a simple thank you.

She was right, though, about how nice it would be to be able to go wherever, whenever. With her living farther away, he couldn't just get up in the middle of the night and meet her in the cemetery. Some nights he snuck out and went there anyway, but then she wasn't there and that just made him feel worse. Even with school before, and work now, they saw less of each other than they had when she'd been living with her so-called uncle. What time they had was spent surrounded by other people.

"You guys have any plans for the Fourth of July?" Steve asked. 

"Not yet," Clint said. He hadn't really thought about it much; all he knew was that he was _not_ going to get sucked into any family bullshit with the Sullivans. "You?" 

"I was actually thinking about going to Boston," Steve said. "They do a big fireworks thing and a concert with the Boston Pops. I went with my mom two years ago, before she got sick, and I kind of want to go back. And I thought maybe I could see Tony and Bruce while I was there."

"What is Boston Pops?" Natasha asked. "Is music group?"

"It's an orchestra," Steve said. "They do the 1812 Overture every year, which I know probably doesn't mean anything to you, but—"

"I know 1812 Overture! Is written by Tchaikovsky. Is Russian." She looked rather smug about that.

"Oh," Steve said. "Well, cool then. Anyway, it's got cannons as part of the orchestration," he told Clint. "And you guys would be welcome to come along if you wanted." 

Clint looked at Natasha, who looked back, her eyebrows raised. "We'll have to talk to Mr. Fury and the Sullivans," he said after a second. "But yeah, that'd be cool."

"Great," Steve said. "Just let me know."

There was no way they would ever get permission. The only question was whether they would do it anyway.


	48. Chapter 48

"It's too bad Thor couldn't come," Steve said, looking at them through the rearview mirror. 

"If he'd come, he would've wanted to bring Loki along," Clint pointed out. "Then we'd have to listen to him complain about everything the entire time."

"Maybe," Steve agreed, "but it would have been nice anyway, to have the whole group together."

"What did Tony say when you told him we were coming?" Clint asked. "Unless it's a surprise?"

"It's not," Steve said. "I didn't want them to already have plans or something. When he finally stopped talking about the projects they were working on and how awesome everyone thinks he is long enough for me to get a word in edgewise, he seemed pretty happy."

"You should have call Bruce," Natasha pointed out. "He is better listener."

"Yeah, I didn't think of that until it was too late," Steve said with a laugh. "But he said that they would go down to the river early to make sure we get a good spot. He said that he would rig up something so we could listen to the concert at the Hatchshell without actually having to be near it, although I suspect that it's going to be crowded on both sides of the river."

"Guess we'll find out," Clint said. He glanced back at Natasha, not liking the way her features tightened slightly at the mention of crowds. He wasn't the biggest fan of being surrounded by a crush of people, but he was a lot more used to it than she was, he suspected. He reached back to touch her knee. _You're fine,_ he told her.

_I know,_ she said, looking more annoyed than anything. Maybe he'd read her wrong after all. He tried, but sometimes it was hard, even as well as he knew her, especially when there were other people around. 

"It's cool that your parents were willing to let you come," Steve said. "I was a little worried that maybe they wouldn't."

They glanced at each other. "Yeah," Clint said. "Sometimes they can be pains, but I guess you made a good impression when they met you." Good enough that they'd been willing to let him go to 'a little barbecue with my friend Steve, and fireworks after', which was they lie they'd both told to get out of their houses and away. Neither the Sullivans nor Mr. Fury knew that the barbecue was in Boston (well, Cambridge) and that it was unlikely they would be home before well past midnight.

Easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission, they'd decided. But of course if Steve knew that, he would turn the car around and take them straight back home. Better that he just not know, and they would deal with the consequences in the morning if there were any.

They arrived in Boston a little before noon, and spent another hour looking for parking, and then another trying to find Tony and Bruce in the sea of people that lined the Charles River, despite repeated texts back and forth attempting to provide directions.

By the time they found the blanket that had been laid out, they were more than ready to eat. They'd stuffed their backpacks full of food, and Tony and Bruce had supplied even more. "You know, it would have been easier if you'd just let me hack into your phone," Tony said. "I could have put in our GPS coordinates and led you straight to us." 

"I'd rather not have you having any control over my phone," Steve said. "Anyway, we're here now, right?"

"It only took you half the afternoon. We're starving here! Aren't we, Bruce? Wasting away. Look at him." He poked Bruce in the side.

The other boy yelped, then rolled his eyes. "Not really. You've been snacking the entire time."

"Well so have you!" Tony protested. "We both have. He started it. Nice shirt, by the way."

"What?" Steve asked, looking down. "It's patriotic." The shirt was blue, with a white star in the middle of a blue circle, surrounded by a sort of red and white shield... or bullseye, Clint couldn't help thinking.

"Whatever you say, Captain America."

Bruce rolled his eyes again. "There's plenty of food, anyway." He reached into one of their coolers and began pulling containers out, and for a while no one said much of anything because they were too busy chewing.

When they'd managed to stave off starvation (at least for an hour or two – they _were_ teenagers, after all) they caught each other up on what they'd been up to... which meant Tony did most of the talking, with occasional interruptions to ask Bruce a question that he didn't give him a chance to answer. Steve talked about the camp and how things were going there. Clint and Natasha mostly just watched the people. 

They were glad when the sun started to go down, because the temperature dropped somewhat with it, and it meant fewer reapplications of sunscreen, especially for Natasha, whose fair skin had started to turn pink within minutes. 

It also meant that more people flooded down to the waterfront, filling in every conceivable gap between the previously staked out areas. Natasha shifted closer to Clint as the crowds seemed to close in, knees and elbows and tips of toes beginning to overhang the edges of their blanket.

"Steve!" 

The shout came from somewhere in the crowd, and they all turned to try and locate where it was coming from. Not that Steve was an uncommon name; the chances of it being someone actually looking for _their_ Steve were pretty slim. But they looked nonetheless.

"Steve!" They saw a girl around their age picking her way through the crowds, stumbling over blankets and people and swearing and apologizing in equal measure. "Damn it, Steve, where are you?"

Steve – their Steve, the eternal boy scout – stood up. 

"Do you know her?" Bruce asked. 

"No, but... she looks like she could use some help." He made his way over to her, and a minute later came back with her in tow. Her face was flushed, and she smelled like alcohol, although now that they could see her more clearly, she definitely wasn't old enough to be drinking. 

"At least I found _a_ Steve," she grumbled, dropping down onto the blanket, nearly knocking over pretty much everything in the process. "Even if it's not the _right_ Steve."

They all looked at Steve expectantly. He shrugged. "She's looking for her brother," he said. "Whose name is also Steve. I figured she could sit with us for a few minutes while we try and call him and find out where he is. She lost her phone." He smiled, trying to be reassuring, while they all tried to put as much distance between themselves and her as they could when they only had a five foot square to work with.

"Do you have his number?" Steve asked.

She rattled off a series of numbers... and then a second one – same numbers, different order – when the first didn't work. On the fourth try, she managed to get herself together enough to provide a number that was A. valid, and B. got through to the right person.

"Hi, Steve? This is... well, Steve. You don't know me, but your sister is looking for you and she lost her phone, and..." He put his hand over the mouthpiece and leaned down, "What's your name?"

"What's my name? What's my name?" She reached up and snatched the phone from Steve's hand. "What are you talking about, what's my name? He said your sister. Do you have another one that I'm somehow unaware of? I've been trying to find you for hours, but you decided to be an asshole and move and now I can't find you and I never should have brought you here in the first place but you begged and I caved and now— Yes you _did_ move, you have to have moved, because if you hadn't then I would be able to find you! I remember _exactly_ where we set our stuff, because it's within sight of the Howitzers and—"

She stopped as Tony tugged on her sleeve. "What?" she demanded.

"The Howitzers are on the other side of the river," Tony pointed out. "Over there. _Way_ over there." He pointed.

Carol squinted into the increasing darkness. "Oh for f— I'll be right there." She hung up and handed the phone back to Steve, stomping off.

"Is someone going to follow her?" Bruce asked. "Make sure she doesn't, like, fall in?"

"I'll go," Steve said. "I'll be back soon."

They watched him go, looking at each other and then avoiding looking at each other because it probably should have been funny but it wasn't. It was just sad.

"Maybe we should have asked her to stay," Tony mused. "She would have fit right in on the Island of Misfit Toys."

Natasha frowned and looked at Clint, and really didn't know any better than she did. Tony and Bruce then spent several minutes trying to explain before finally just pulling up a YouTube video to show them. It helped pass the time while they waited (with increasing anxiety) for Steve to return. It took him almost an hour to get back, and when he did he looked exhausted. 

"She found her brother?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," Steve said, settling down on the blanket again. "Hopefully she'll just drink water for the rest of the night."

It was nearly dark now, so Tony pulled up a feed of the concert going on on the other side of the river. They listened to the music, sinking into themselves and their own little worlds. And then the fireworks started.

Natasha jumped at the first bang, shifting quickly so that her back was pressed hard into Clint's chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and she put her hands over her ears to help muffle the noise. He just switched off his hearing aids. Sure, it meant that he wouldn't hear the music either, but he didn't really care about that.

For that matter, he barely cared about the fireworks. He was too busy watching Natasha's face as she watched them, the colors playing across her skin, caught in reflection in her eyes. He watched as her mouth opened slightly in wonder. He felt her gasp, and he smiled when she glanced at him to see if he was seeing what she was. Whatever happened after this, it would be worth it just for these moments.

It was over too soon, and they started to gather their things, packing it all up so that Tony and Bruce could head back to their dorm and the other three could find Steve's car and head home. They said their goodbyes, and followed the crowd as it flowed away from the river. Clint kept hold of Natasha's hand, not wanting to lose her in the press of people... well, and because he could. Because at least here, now, he would let her.

The drive home seemed far longer than the drive there had been, and they were still over an hour away when Natasha's phone rang. She looked at the display, her eyes going wide, and seemed to be debating whether or not to answer at all. She caught it on the last ring. "Hello?" There was a pause, then, "We are on way home. There is a lot of traffic." Another pause, and then, "Yes, okay. Okay." She hung up, then flashed the display at Clint.

Mister Fury.

_Trouble?_ , Clint asked.

_I don't know. Maybe. He said you can stay the night with me, though._

_Can't be that bad, then,_ Clint reasoned. _Right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fourth of July, everyone! (Well, if you're not American, happy Thursday!) 
> 
> This is basically my ode to Boston, which is where I went to college, and yes, I did go to the fireworks one year. I am not actually making any of this up. There really are cannons, staffed and fired by members of the military, at the appropriate time in the 1812 Overture.
> 
> I'm a bit bummed because CBS decided they were no longer going to air the Boston Pops concert and Boston fireworks, opting instead to show reruns. The Boston fireworks are vastly superior to the NYC ones that will be aired on another channel. 
> 
> Oh, and yes, Carol is exactly who you think she is. *grins*


	49. Chapter 49

Natasha's room had air conditioning, and a fan pointing right at the bed, so it was cool enough that waking up with her curled into him was pleasantly warm rather than uncomfortably sticky. He nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck and felt her stir. Her palm slid up his arm and she laced her fingers through his, turning her head to kiss him. 

He'd forgotten what it was like to wake up with her... which, when he thought about it, was probably a good thing, because if he hadn't forgotten he would miss it. Now that he'd been reminded, waking up alone was going to suck. Maybe it wasn't very manly of him, but he felt safe when she was with him. She had his back, and he had hers, and it was just easier to do that when they were together.

He tapped his ear then pointed toward the door, his eyebrows up in a visual question mark. Natasha shook her head. She didn't hear anything. Then she rolled her eyes and laughed, and when his eyebrows lowered, still a question but not yes-or-no this time, she brought his hand down to her stomach, and he could feel it gurgling.

_Breakfast?_ , he asked.

She nodded and sat up, pulling him up with her and kissing him again before sliding out of bed. He followed her out into the kitchen, glancing at a clock. It was almost ten; Mr. Fury had let them sleep in. For that matter, Clint didn't see him anywhere. Maybe he'd run out to do errands or something. Natasha tapped his arm and told him to go into the refrigerator to see if there was any buttermilk while she took things out of the cupboards.

Together they made pancakes. Mr. Fury had taught her how, she said. It wasn't very hard. They sprinkled some with blueberries and some with raspberries, and it was a little like the Fourth of July all over again. 

_Steve would approve,_ Clint joked. _Very patriotic._

Natasha grinned. _Don't burn the bacon._

They sat down to breakfast, mostly quiet, just enjoying the fact that it was summer vacation and a long weekend and they had nowhere to be and they were together. Then Natasha turned abruptly, and Clint was half out of his chair before he saw that it was just Mr. Fury, not an intruder or anyone to be alarmed about.

"Morning," he said. It looked like the man's lips formed a good morning in return, and then he said something else, and Natasha responded, but Clint had no idea what the exchange was. He supposed he should probably get his hearing aids, but he liked the quiet, and it wasn't like he needed them with Natasha.

Mr. Fury left the room, and Natasha turned back to him, looking grim. _He wants to talk to both of us once we've got things cleaned up,_ she said. 

_About what?_

Natasha shrugged. _I don't know._ But they did know, didn't they? On a gut level, they knew, and they both lost their appetites. They put away the leftovers and cleaned up the mess, then retreated to her bedroom to put on something other than pajamas before heading back down to the living room.

"Have a seat," Mr. Fury said. "Both of you."

They sat, and Mr. Fury sat down opposite them. "I just have one question for you two," he said, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. "How stupid do you think I am?"

They looked at each other, then at him, Clint's mouth hanging slightly open and Natasha biting the inside of her cheek. Neither of them had an answer, and Clint wasn't sure they were supposed to answer it at all. He thought it might be... what was the word?... rhetorical.

"Because I know the two of you ain't stupid. You managed to pull yourselves up from almost failing all of your classes to passing everything in a couple of weeks. You kept it hidden from everyone, from quite a few people who are supposed to be trained to recognize certain signs, that anything was going on with Natasha. Yesterday you managed, once again, to figure out how to do just exactly what you wanted, without anyone knowing that you didn't have permission to do it, and you even almost got away with it. So I know it's not you who's stupid. But you must think that I am." He looked back and forth between them. "After all, I let you go. I didn't ask too many questions. I took you at your word, because I was stupid enough to think that I could trust you. So maybe you're right. Maybe I _am_ a fool."

Clint still didn't say anything. Neither did Natasha. Because Mr. Fury was right about at least one thing – they weren't stupid. They were, in fact, smart enough to figure out that saying anything at that moment couldn't end well. They sat frozen in place, not even daring to reach for each other to try and find what comfort they could in some show of solidarity.

"You know what? I guess maybe I do have more than one question, now that I think about it," Mr. Fury said. "First one is for both of you. Are you aware that you are both in foster care?"

Clint looked at Natasha, then nodded. "Yeah. Yes. Sir." She nodded too, but said nothing.

"Are you aware that when you are in foster care, if someone decides to check up on you in your placement, and you are not there and your foster parents don't know your whereabouts, they could be deemed negligent and you could be removed from your placement?" He was looking at Clint when he asked that, but soon turned his attention to Natasha. "Have you forgotten, Miss Romanova, that not only are you in foster care, but you are in what really can only be called protective custody?"

"No," she said. "I do not forget."

"Did you forget that they didn't want me to take you in the first place? Did you forget that they wanted to put you in a safe house where it was unlikely that anyone who had known you while you were under your so-called uncle's so-called _care_ could ever find you, but I managed to convince them that you could stay in the area and still be safe, that I could handle looking out for you, just so you wouldn't have to leave school and your friends, because you were so adamant about staying?"

"No," she said again, looking down at her fingers where they twined in her lap. "I do not forget."

"Did you somehow forget that they could still take you away at any time if they think that I _can't_ keep you safe? Which I'm pretty sure finding out that you're in a totally different state with no supervision whatsoever would qualify in their books as me not being able to keep you safe. Did you—"

"Nothing happened," Clint interrupted, leaning forward to put himself between Fury and Natasha if necessary. "We went, and we came back, and we're fine. Nothing happened."

"Which only reinforces in your minds that it's okay to do this kind of thing," Mr. Fury said. "You're young. You think you're invincible. You think you know more about life than anyone, especially adults. Because what have adults ever done for you?"

Clint's hands curled into fists, but he swallowed his anger... mostly. "What's your point?"

"My point," Mr. Fury said, "is that I've dealt with a lot of people your age, and I've seen what can happen when you forget that actions have consequences. And with you, both of you, the stakes are so much higher, and I want to make sure that you don't forget that."

He looked back and forth between them, turning his head slightly to fix each of them with his eye. "What if I suddenly got a call saying that they'd found out that people were looking for Natasha, because they wanted to make sure she couldn't testify in court, and you were gone and I didn't know where? What if they'd managed to figure out where you were before we did? What if they followed you, or caught you coming back? Or what if the investigators had some more questions for Natasha, and she wasn't here and I didn't know where she was?"

"Why they would have more questions? Why they would need to ask on holiday?" Natasha asked, leaning forward, her shoulder pressing into Clint's. 

"If you're trying to be funny, Natasha, now really isn't the time," Fury said. "What I'm trying to get through your heads is that if you take off and I don't know where you are, and suddenly they need for me to be able to tell them where you are and I can't tell them, they could decide that you need to be taken away after all. If someone decided to look for you, and found you, they could hurt you. They could hurt Clint, Steve, and anyone else around you."

Clint could feel Natasha flinch at that, and his fingers unclenched and found her hand, closing around it. "Okay, fine," Clint said. "We get it. Can the scared straight, intervention shit be over now?"

For a second, he thought Fury might actually reach out and hit him. Natasha must have thought it too, because suddenly her shoulder was in front of his, pushing him back, her jaw set and her eyes blazing. 

But Fury leaned back, running his hands over his head, and shocked them both by saying, "I'm sorry. That isn't how I meant to go about this. You don't need to be scared. Scared has been your default state for a long time now. And that ain't right. I'm trying to give you as normal a life as I can here, but the fact is, your life ain't normal, and it's not going to _be_ normal for at least another little while until this court case is done and over with. The point I'm trying to make is that I trusted you, but at some point, Natasha, and you too, Clint, you're going to have to start to trust me."

Silence fell thick around them, with Clint watching Natasha and Natasha watching Fury and Fury watching both of them. 

"Why did you do it?" he asked finally. "Why did you lie?"

"Because I am tired of being prisoner!" Natasha snapped. "I am tired of being here, then get up go to school, go to work, come home. Same thing, every day. This is... I am _safe_ , but this is not a life! I see Clint almost never! School, work, they don't count! I come to America thinking I will be free, and then..." She shook her head. "And then this. Is better, yes, no one hurt me, no one making me do things I never should have to do, but pretty cage is still cage!"

"Okay," Mr. Fury said after a moment. "Okay. So we can work on that. I don't want you to feel like you're in a cage, Natasha. But that doesn't answer my second question. Why did you lie?"

"Because I know you will not let me go," Natasha replied.

"How do you know? You didn't ask," Fury said.

"You just told us so!" Clint said. "You just gave us a whole fu— whole list of reasons why we shouldn't have gone."

"I just gave you a whole list of reasons why you shouldn't have lied and disappeared without anyone knowing where you were. I never actually said you shouldn't have gone. Because if you'd asked, I would have said yes. I would have gone, too, so that if anything happened I was there, but you probably wouldn't have even noticed me otherwise. But you didn't know that, because you didn't ask," Fury said. 

Clint snorted. "That's what everyone says when it's done and over. If we'd asked, you'd've said no. That's what adults do." _You ask, they say no, you do it anyway, they get pissed and say you should have asked because they would have said yes and if you remind them that you **did** ask and they're a lying fuck who is just too drunk to remember, they beat the shit out of you._

Not that had had any experience in that area.

"Maybe that's what the Sullivans do," Mr. Fury said. "Which, by the way, they called last night to find out when you were coming home. I told them that you were staying here, that that had been the arrangement all along and I was sorry that somehow he'd forgotten to mention that part. Even though at that point I had no idea where either of you were. So you'll probably be in some trouble for not telling them that I'd given permission for you to spend the night, but at least you won't be in trouble for leaving the state."

"Why you would do that?" Natasha asked, her eyes narrowed. "Why you would lie for him?"

"Because I figured every once in a while he deserves a break," Mr. Fury said. "I figured maybe I could get the punishment limited to a lecture, maybe some extra chores. Because grounding you isn't going to help anything. That much I've figured out. Keeping you two apart is likely to make you more reckless."

"Thank you," Clint said.

Fury waved it away. "I'm not looking for thanks. Just next time at least give me a chance to do right by you before you assume I won't."

"Yes sir," Natasha said. 

"Yes sir," Clint echoed.

"That's all I ask. Now go on."

They got up and retreated to Natasha's room. _You think he means it?_ Clint asked.

_I don't know,_ Natasha said. _I think he might._

_You think we can trust him?_

She shrugged and wrapped her arms around him, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. Clint couldn't help but agree; the only person he could ever trust completely was her. But Coulson hadn't let them down, so maybe, if they had to, they could give Fury a chance.


	50. Chapter 50

After a week dealing with kids in heat and humidity that could only be deemed ridiculous, Clint's plan had been to sleep through as much of the morning as he was allowed, then somehow convince the Sullivans to let him spend the rest of the weekend with Natasha. Steve had mentioned something about a state park and a lake, and that hadn't sounded like a half-bad idea.

So when he felt a weight on his bed at an hour that he could sense was way too early on Saturday morning, he wanted to shove whoever it was away. But then he felt fingers in his hair, stroking his temple in a way that Mrs. Sullivan never would (and he wouldn't have allowed if she'd tried) and he opened his eyes.

_Good morning,_ Natasha signed. _Sorry to wake you._

He rolled onto his back to free up both his hands. _I don't mind,_ he replied, then held out his hands to pull her down to him. Something had been off the last few days, a tightness in her expression that he had been hesitant to ask about. Despite what Fury had said, they hadn't seen any more of each other this past week than they had been, and really even less because she'd had to leave work early a few times. Something to do with the investigation was all she said.

She shook her head and took one of his hands, pressing her cheek into the palm before dropping it. _I need you to come somewhere with me._

_Where?_ , he asked, but it was sort of a pointless question, because it didn't matter where. If she asked, he would go.

And she knew it. She shook her head. _You've followed me into hell already. I just need you to go a few steps farther. Please._

It wasn't the words that got him, although they certainly helped. It was the way her gaze caught him, held him there. Her face was a mask, but her eyes were scared and pleading. And the thought came into his head – how many times had her "uncle" seen her like this and not noticed or not cared? How many times had she silently begged him before she gave up? Or had she managed to hide it from him somehow, like she'd hidden everything from the world for so long? 

He wanted to kiss her and have that take the pain and fear away, like it did for little kids after you put a band-aid on their cut. He wanted to kill that man for even thinking he had any right to so much as _look_ at Natasha. 

He couldn't do either. Well, he might have been able to do the former, but he had the feeling Fury was waiting downstairs and one of the boys might get sent up to retrieve them soon. _I just have to get dressed._

_Thank you._ Natasha got up and left his room, shutting the door behind her. 

Clint got up and dressed as quickly as he could, then went to the bathroom to make sure his hair wasn't sticking up all over the place, and to brush his teeth. He stared at himself in the mirror, wondering what he was getting himself into this time, and wondering too what she saw in him, why of all people she'd chosen him to be the one that she could trust. Shouldn't it have been someone like Steve, or maybe Bruce? He was as much of a mess as she was sometimes, or he had been back when they'd met.

But maybe that was why. And maybe the why didn't matter, only that she had. Now he just had to keep figuring out how to be the person she seemed to think he was, who was a whole hell of a lot better than who he actually was, or at least who he'd been. 

He tried to shake the thoughts from his head as he stuck his head under the shower, wetting his hair and then toweling it off, trying to arrange it into something vaguely presentable. He went back to his room to grab his hearing aids and stuffed them into his ears as he padded downstairs.

Natasha was waiting at the bottom. The corner of her mouth quirked, and she reached up to wipe a smudge of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth. "There," she said. "Let's go."

"I should—"

"The Sullivans already know," Mr. Fury said. "We need to get going or we'll be late."

They stepped out into the heat, and Natasha called shotgun. Fury looked at her like he wasn't quite sure what to make of that, and Clint grinned. "Me and Steve taught her that." He didn't let on that he was surprised that she'd done it, and that she was choosing not to sit in the back with him, effectively cutting off conversation between them for the duration of the ride.

They pulled up in of a nondescript office building. "I'll be back in an hour," Fury said as they got out, and drove off. Natasha glanced up at Clint, then away, motioning for him to follow her. They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. It was only when he saw the sign just outside the elevator, telling them which direction to go, that he figured out what was going on.

"You're bringing me to a shrink?" he asked.

"I'm bringing you with me to my shrink," she clarified. "I'm sorry."

He considered asking why, but decided that in the end it really didn't matter. So he followed her down the hall and into the office, where she checked in with the receptionist, and was told to go right on back, the doctor was waiting for her.

The woman seated in an armchair looked a lot like Clint's own therapist (or whatever she was supposed to be). Middle-aged, nondescript. She looked up with a smile that faltered when she saw Clint. "Who is this, Natasha?" she asked.

Natasha crossed her arms. "You say I cannot do this alone. You say I need to have support system. You mean I should talk to you. But I don't want to talk to you. Already I am not alone. I think you will not believe me unless I prove it. So I bring him here."

Clint wasn't sure whether to grin or bury his face in his hands. He wasn't surprised that Natasha wasn't any more inclined to talk to a stranger about her problems than he was, although he knew that she'd been forced to say a lot more than he ever would have, to a lot more people, because of the investigation. She'd been careful to keep him out of it, telling him over and over again that she needed him safe, so he was surprised that she was suddenly tugging him right into the line of fire. But maybe this was different. This was all supposed to be confidential, or so he was told, over and over again. Anything said in that room stayed in that room. He couldn't imagine that the rules would be different here.

"You're still required to be here," the woman pointed out. "I'll allow him to stay, if it will make you more comfortable." 

Clint thought he heard a faint note of Natasha's accent in the woman's voice, but then he might have been hearing things. He hadn't paid any attention to her name on the door, so he didn't have that to clue him in either. He looked at Natasha, who shrugged and sat down on the couch. He sat down beside her, not too close, feeling awkward.

"So, Natasha, how are you feeling today?" When that got no answer, she tried again. "How are you feeling now that a date has been set for the trial?"

Natasha grimaced, glancing at Clint. He tried not to let his surprise show, even though she hadn't told him. He didn't want to force Natasha to show any kind of weakness to this woman if he could help it. "Fine," she said. "Is fine."

"Fine isn't a feeling. It's a deflection." She glanced at Clint and folded her hands. "But let's take a step back, because you didn't actually answer my question. Who is this?"

"Is my best friend," Natasha said. 

"Does he have a name?"

"Why you don't ask him yourself? He can hear you. He is not deaf." And then she snorted, realizing what she'd said, and Clint laughed. 

"Is something funny?" the therapist asked. 

"Kinda," Clint said. "I'm Clint, and I actually _am_ deaf without my hearing aids."

"It's nice to meet you, Clint. I'm Dr. Kovaleva." She leaned forward to extend her hand. He didn't take it. She leaned back in her seat and Clint wondered if she was trying to suppress a sigh.

"So is Clint the person you talk to when you're upset?" she asked Natasha. 

Natasha shrugged. Truth was they didn't actually talk much about stuff like that, and mostly they didn't need to. If Natasha was hurting, she came to him, sure, but usually they talked about just about anything else until the feeling passed. 

"I tell you, I don't want to talk to you," Natasha said. "This is not hard to understand, I think."

"I understand the words that you're saying," Dr. Kovaleva agreed. "I also know that what you're going through is very difficult, and that being able to talk about it can help you. But by all means, if you'd rather talk to your friend than to me, I am willing to simply sit and listen."

"Fine," Natasha said. She turned in her seat, drawing one knee up so she could face Clint more fully. _The trial starts on Monday. I didn't find out until a few days ago. I wanted to tell you but... I didn't want to think about it. They don't know when I'll be called._

Clint glanced at Natasha's therapist, suppressing a smirk as her eyes went wide, and then her jaw tensed and she gripped the edge of her notepad. _It's okay,_ he reassured her. _I mean... are you okay?_

Dr. Kovaleva cleared her throat, but they ignored her. Natasha bit the inside of her lip, then shook her head. _I'm scared._

_Why?_

She cleared her throat again. "Okay, Natasha, very clever. However, I'm going to have to request that you speak in a language that I can understand."

Natasha looked at her, her face twisted into a scowl. "Why? I am talking. You are interrupting. Why I should tell you anything? What you have done to earn right for me to trust you?"

"Natasha, you know that anything that you say in this room is just between us. I can't tell anyone anything that you've said, unless I have reason to believe that you are a danger to yourself or to others."

"I know nothing of that," Natasha snapped. "You say whatever you want to say, does not make it true." She turned her attention back to Clint, tension all through her. 

_Why are you scared, Natasha?_ , he asked again.

_I think maybe I'm making a huge mistake._

"Natasha, I am going to have to insist..."

_Why? About what?_

_All of this. What if they find him not guilty? What if they let him go? What if the others – and there are others, ones they didn't catch, I'm sure of it – think that even if he does get convicted, he'll say something, that he'll talk, or worse, what if he does and they blame me for bringing him down, bringing them all down, and they send someone after me. What if they find out about you and come after **you**? I couldn't—_

He caught her hands, stopping the flow of words. It was rude, like putting his hand over her mouth would be if she'd been speaking, but he had to stop her, had to reassure her that it would be okay. He let her hands go slowly. _If that happens, we run,_ he told her. _We run as far as we have to for as long as we have to until we find somewhere that we can be safe._

"Natasha, this is not funny," Dr. Kovaleva said, her tone sharp. 

"You're right. It ain't," Clint snapped. "There ain't nothing funny about you demanding that she talk, and then when she does, you interrupt her because you don't like how she's doing it."

"Clint, if you insist upon being rude, I will—"

"Rude?" Natasha's eyes narrowed as she turned on the woman, her cheeks flushed with color. "He is not rude. He is _right_. You say you want to help. You know _nothing_ of help. You think help means asking me to tear open wounds, spill guts, and you look at them, run your fingers through entrails and play in my blood, play at, at, at _augur_ to tell my fortune which is that if I am good girl, do as you say, I will feel better. But I do not have good luck with people telling me what to do being good, so why I should listen to you?"

"That isn't what I'm trying to do, Natasha, and I'm sorry that you feel that way. I'm not trying to cause you more pain; I'm trying help you work through what's already there. But it's very difficult when you refuse to talk to me."

Natasha shook her head. "I could give you words and words and words, all of the words in all of the languages I know, and still you would not understand. You think because you talk to other people who have been raped, you know. You don't know. You can never know."

"But your friend does?" She sounded doubtful.

"He does," Natasha replied. "He understand sometimes words do not help. Sometimes – most of time – what you do is more important than what you say. And he is with me all the time, from beginning 'til now. Even before he knew what is happening, he knew something is not right, and he is there, always there, never once he is not there."

_That's not—_ , Clint started, but just as he'd done to her before, she reached out and took his hand, stopping him. 

"If was not for him, I would not be here. I would be dead." The words were said in defiance, and her fingers clenched around Clint's. 

"Why do you say that?" Dr. Kovaleva asked. 

"Because if not for him, I would have given up. Three times he save me that I can think of. Probably is more than that. First time, I want to give up because I think there is no hope. I am out in cold and he finds me and gets me warm. If he did not find me, I would die. Second time, I wake up one day after bad night, worst night, and I wish I did not wake up. But I make myself get up, because I know if I can see him, he will take some of my pain, give me some of his strength so I can want to be alive again. Third time, I am ready to give up, but I call him and he tells me no, no I cannot give up, and I listen. I think, okay, I will live for him when I think there is no reason to live for me."

Silence. Clint's heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, and all he wanted to do was wrap her in his arms and hold her, because he'd thought he'd known, but he hadn't known really. He'd tried, certainly, but to hear her actually say it, that he'd saved her, to hear what he'd done thrown in her therapist's face... 

It just felt like the world had been tipped on its head a little.

And then the silence was broken, the moment lost. "I'm very glad that you were able to find support when you needed it," Dr. Kovaleva said. "I'm concerned, though, to hear you say that you decided to live for him, rather than for yourself. I know that when you're young, it's easy to let a relationship become your entire world, but you need to be able to stand on your own two feet. You can't rely on someone else to validate you—"

"Stop." Natasha's voice had dropped to a growl. "Every time you speak I think you have never listened to anything I say, today or any other day. What I have been through, you think you can do better? You think in the middle of everything that happen, you would always believe, oh, it will be better. I can get out of this and make this all right all on my own? If you think that, then you are very, very stupid. You go to such a dark place, you cannot always see light. But when I cannot find it myself, he find it for me, show me way back. Sometimes, he _is_ light all on his own. I focus on that until I find my own two feet, as you say, again. You think this is wrong?" She shook her head. "You always asking questions. Now I ask you. You have family, no? Parent, brother, sister, husband, children?"

"Yes, I have a family," the doctor said, which surprised Clint. In his experience, adults never talked about their own lives. Especially the ones whose job it was to make them talk about theirs.

"And when you have bad day, do you think of family to make things better? Think that once you get home, see them, everything bad will be maybe less bad?" Natasha didn't wait for an answer. "Is no different. Is just bigger scale."

It appeared that Natasha had managed to stun her therapist into silence, and she pressed the advantage. "Anyway, what person thinks only what is good for them? I know one person like this, who thinks only of himself. He call himself my uncle. Now I hope he rot in jail for all the rest of his life. So don't tell me I am wrong because when it is too dark to see past the pain I am in, I decide I will live because there is someone shows to me every day that I have a reason to stay."

She took a breath, let it out slowly. "I have had more life in sixteen years than most people ever will have. I have seen more darkness, more pain than anyone ever should have to. He asks of me nothing that I am not ready to give. So yes, I talk to him, not to you. I am done with this."

Natasha got up, and Clint followed. He expected the doctor to try to get Natasha to stop, but she didn't say a word. They made it down the hall, all the way to the elevator and inside, before Natasha cracked. She pressed herself into a corner and slid down the wall, huddling there.

Clint crouched in front of her, gathering her into his arms. When the elevator reached the ground floor, he helped her up. Mr. Fury's car was waiting at the curb, and he wondered if the doctor had called him after their abrupt departure. Maybe he'd never left. It didn't matter. They climbed into the back seat.

He wanted to ask if she'd meant it, but she didn't really say things she didn't mean. Especially not with that many words, and with that much vehemence. 

So he said the only thing he could think of to say, easy enough even one-handed, because the other was still tangled with hers. _I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed the extra-long chapter this week! Who knew that Natasha had so much to say? I was trying to figure out if there was a way to split it, but then I decided that since it's the 50th chapter of a fic that I wasn't even sure was going to go past chapter 1, I might as well allow it to be a bit epic.
> 
> Thank you all so much for continuing on this journey with me and the kids! As a sort of thank you gift for sticking with us for this long, I'm going to put out an offer/idea to you all, inspired by something one of my favorite authors did/is doing (although I'd actually thought about this ages ago).
> 
> Basically, I'm looking for prompts for stories that you would like to see. Not where you would like to see the current story go – I already have that mapped out, roughly, at least through the end of the summer – but things like deleted scenes that you'd like to see, maybe from other characters' points of view. Since this is basically from Clint's POV, we don't necessarily see what's going on with Tony or Bruce or Pepper or anyone else all the time. Maybe you want to know what Tony and Bruce are up to at Nerd Camp. Maybe you want to know what family dinner at the Odinson house is like. Anything that has happened up to the point in time that the story is at is basically fair game.
> 
> It's not a guarantee that I _will_ write the scenes you ask for, but it certainly improves the chances. 
> 
> Or, if you prefer, pitch me an idea for a Clint/Natasha story for the grown-up versions that I sometimes write about. You may have noticed that a lot of my stories are titled from/inspired by songs. I know at least one of you mentioned having a Clintasha playlist. Is there a song that makes you think of them that you want me to try my hand at turning into a story? Tell me what it is! 
> 
> Again, I can't make promises that I'll be able to do something with every idea, but if you've stuck around this long I figure it means you must like my writing at least a little bit, and the comments and kudos that I get on this story really make me smile and keep me fueled to keep writing. This is my way of saying thanks for all of the love. I love you all too!
> 
> Leave a comment here, or if for some reason you're not comfortable doing that, let me know and we'll figure out some other way for you to get the idea to me.


	51. Chapter 51

Clint looked up at the tap on his door. He'd been staring at the ceiling since Mrs. Sullivan had picked him up from work, and when he glanced at the clock he saw that somehow he'd lost over an hour. It was nearly dinner time. 

But if one of the boys had been sent to get him, they rarely bothered with such social niceties as knocking. They just barged in, or bellowed through the door. He forced himself to sit up. Every movement took ten times the effort it should have, and he gave up on actually getting up to open the door himself. "Who's there?"

"Mr. Sullivan," came the voice from the other side, garbled so that Clint guessed what was being said more by the pitch of the voice than actually understanding the words. 

_What do you want?_ Clint wasn't in the mood to deal with any fake parental bullshit, and his foster father pretty much only talked to him when he was in trouble. What had he done now? It wasn't like he'd been quote-unquote forgetting to tell them about plans that he'd made or anything like that that had pissed them off in the past. He had no one to make plans with.

Natasha hadn't been to work all week. He'd (mostly) managed to avoid the anxiety-induced nausea he used to feel every morning standing on the school steps waiting for her to arrive by telling himself that he'd known it was a possibility. They hadn't known when she was going to be called to testify; he had to expect that she would just not show up some days. 

It was a little harder to stomach the fact that when he'd tried to call her that night, she hadn't picked up, and all of his text messages had gone unanswered. For a day, he could handle it, but on the second day he'd finally broken down and called Mr. Fury (the Sullivans had his number written down) to find out what was going on. There'd been no answer, and no response to his voicemail.

He'd tried again today, but still nothing. In a way, the heat the gripped the area and refused to let go was a good thing, because it robbed him of most of his energy by the end of the day, leading him to collapse on his bed and stare into space rather than giving in to the itch that he'd mostly managed to bury in the last year, the urge to just pick up and take off. It was nearer and nearer the surface every day, and it felt like only a matter of time. 

After all, what kept him here? It wasn't school, or even having a place to sleep and three meals a day. It wasn't anything the Sullivans did to make him feel like part of the family (and they'd mostly given up trying). It was Natasha. He wouldn't go anywhere now without her. 

He could hear his brother's voice in his head, a distance taunting echo, mocking him for letting something as trivial as a girl stop him from doing whatever he wanted to do. He told the voice it didn't know anything at all, and would he just shut the fuck up already? 

And then wondered if he was losing his mind.

"Can I come in?"

"Oh." Clint glanced at the clock again, wondering how long Mr. Sullivan had been standing at the door waiting for him to say something more, and wondering too why he hadn't just come in. "Yeah."

The door opened and his foster father came in, holding something out. "I wanted to give you this."

Clint frowned. "What is it?" He didn't reach out to take it.

"Mr. Fury dropped by my office and gave it to me to give to you," Mr. Sullivan said. "That's all I know."

Clint got up and took it from him, turning it over. It was a plain white envelope, nothing written on the outside. He glanced up at Mr. Sullivan, who shrugged. "Dinner is in ten minutes."

"Thanks." 

He waited for the door to shut again before he tore the envelope open, nearly tearing its contents in his haste. He pulled out a sheet of paper that was covered in... symbols. The tight, angular writing was clearly Natasha's but what the hell was she doing, writing him a note in Russian? It might as well be written in Martian!

For a second, he considered just tearing it into pieces. What was she playing at? It wasn't funny. But he hadn't seen or heard from her in three days, and even though it didn't make any sense, she'd made Fury give it to Mr. Sullivan to give to him, and that had to mean something, didn't it?

His fingers traced over the last word on the page, which might spell out her name but it might not, and how would he know? 

It wasn't until halfway through dinner that it occurred to him that he could probably somehow put it into a translator online and figure out what she was trying to say. The rest of the meal seemed to last forever, and then it was his turn to do the dishes which stretched his patience even further. Finally he was released from his good-son duties and retreated upstairs.

He pulled out his laptop and slowly, character by character, plugged in the symbols from the page using the on-screen Cyrillic keyboard, until her words took shape.

_C._

_This is not my choice and I hate it. I make him give you at least this message. I am sorry I can't do more._

_Know that your heart is with me even if you cannot be, and keeps me strong._

_I hope this will all be over soon._

_Your,  
N._

Clint read the words, then blinked hard and read them again... and again... and then wrote them carefully on the bottom of the page with the original note, his chickenscratch scrawl nearly as indecipherable as the Russian. He folded the page carefully and tucked it into his pocket alongside the felt heart that still went with him pretty much everywhere.

That night he packed his bags... and then unpacked them. Twice. He needed to get a message to her, but he doubted that going through the channels she'd used would work in reverse. Even if Mr. Sullivan agreed to take the message, Mr. Fury would still have to get it from him, and then what were the odds that he would actually give it to Natasha? He'd told that they would have to learn to trust him, but how the hell was he supposed to trust a man who wouldn't even give something directly to him, because he probably knew that Clint wouldn't have let him walk away without some answers as to why Clint couldn't talk to her.

By Friday, he'd figured out exactly what he would take with him when he left. It was important to travel light, but also to make sure that you had everything that you absolutely needed to get by, because you couldn't always rely on the kindness of strangers. He would have to steal a few things from the Sullivans, but they would get over it. Probably they'd had foster kids who'd done worse in the past, and probably they would just be relieved that he was gone.

Trouble was, he couldn't figure out how long he was supposed to wait. He wasn't leaving with Natasha, but that meant he would have to find her first. Maybe she was just as Mr. Fury's house, but what if she wasn't? If she was still in the area, it would make it more difficult, because the Sullivans might send the cops to look for him and...

Someone would tell him if something had happened to her. Wouldn't they? Whatever else they might feel about him, it was just the decent human thing to do... wasn't it? 

Saturday morning he went to the archery range, trying to lose himself in the rhythm of shooting. He had to make his thoughts still, just breathe and focus, aim, and let the arrow fly. For a little while, he could make himself not think about her, and all the things that might have happened to her, and how would he know, and what would he do, and what if he couldn't do anything at all?

Clint's attention was jerked away by someone reaching out and rapping their knuckles against his head. There was only one person here who would do that, and he turned to glare at her. "Fuck off, Kate."

She rolled her eyes and pointed toward the door.

At first he didn't turn away, thinking she was pulling some kind of prank, but she jabbed her finger more insistently and said something he couldn't hear, but he doubted it was complimentary. He switched his hearing aids back on. "Someone here to see you, numbskull," she repeated.

Clint finally turned and for a second his heart seemed to stop completely. And then he was across the room with his face buried in Natasha's hair, and her fingers dug into his back and they held on until they realized that people were probably staring, and then for a moment or two longer.

"Let me just..." Clint gestured back at his station, where he'd left his gear. Natasha hesitated for a second, then nodded. He went to retrieve his things, and didn't notice when Kate followed him back.

"You must be the one he's gone all avenging archer for," Kate said, eyes on Natasha. "Like some kind of sadistic Robin Hood or something, glaring at the target like he wants to kill it."

Clint felt Natasha twitch, and saw Kate notice. "We gotta go," he said. "I'll see you later." He took Natasha's hand, not caring who saw, and headed for the door, even though he wasn't sure where they were going.

_Who was that?,_ Natasha asked once they were outside.

_Kate,_ he replied. _She's incredibly annoying. And an amazing archer... almost as good as me. Which, when I think about it, is also annoying._ He smiled, and was relieved when Natasha smiled back. _I've been pretty tense lately._

_I'm sorry,_ she said. _I didn't know they weren't going to let me see you. Or anyone. They took away my phone. I can't have any contact with the outside world, pretty much, until this is over. They think that someone is going to find a way to contact me, intimidate me, get me to change my story or something._

_Where are you staying?_

_A hotel. There are police officers outside my door all the time. I hate it._

_Have you testified yet?_ , he asked. _When will it be over?_

_No,_ Natasha said. _I don't know. I convinced them to let me see you for a few hours. I told them I would go crazy if they kept me locked up. I just want to be able to forget all of it for a little while._

Which meant that any other questions he might have would have to wait. Because however hard this was for him, it had to be that much worse for her, and if she wanted to forget, well, he would let her. _Want to go get ice cream?_

The corner of her mouth quirked up, and she nodded. She slid her hand back into his, and with her free hand signed simply, _Thank you._

The time they had went by too quickly, and when Mr. Fury called to tell Natasha that it was time to go back, Clint didn't want to let go. _Is there anything I can do?_ , he asked. 

_Just stay safe,_ she told him. _I need to know that whatever happens, you'll be waiting when it's over._

_I'm not going anywhere,_ he reassured her. _I promise. Not unless you're with me._

Natasha nodded, not quite meeting his eye until he touched her cheek lightly. She smiled weakly up at him, but he could see that it was forced, see that this was all costing her maybe more than she had left to give. They were wearing her down; couldn't they see that? They were afraid of someone else intimidating her into changing her story, but what about what they were doing to her? She shouldn't have to go through this alone, and he wished then that he'd written her a note, something to hold on to. He would have, if he'd known he was going to see her, and now it was too late. Except...

_Take this._ Clint fumbled in his backpack and pulled out his music player, scrolling through until he found the song he wanted, and pressed it into her hands. _Listen to that when you need me. It's..._ He shrugged. _Maybe it will help._

She nodded again, tucking it into her pocket. They hugged so tight Clint thought their ribcages might crack with the pressure, but he didn't care. "I'll see you soon," he whispered into her ear. "Promise." And he kissed her to seal it, and she smiled a little easier, and it was the best he could do.

He hoped... like it felt like he was always hoping with her... that it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone missed it, I posted a "deleted scene" earlier this week from Natasha's point of view, which happens after Chapter 27. It's called [Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/886844). I also set up Ghosts as a series, which if you click on the link where it says Part 1 (or 2) of Ghosts That We Knew ([like so](https://archiveofourown.org/series/50966)) you can subscribe to and then it will alert you any time I post anything to the series. (Or at least that's how I assume it works.)
> 
> Also, for anyone curious, the song that Clint queued is [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sfmzkj5QSto), because the first time I heard it all I could think was, "Did they knew they were writing a song for my kids? Because they totally did." Of course you're free to think it's any song you like. (And you're welcome to tell me what your first thought was!)


	52. Chapter 52

"We are going to the zoo-oo! We are going to the zoo-oo!" Connor chanted, banging his fists on the edge of the table and making the silverware jump as Clint set it down. He poked the fork back into place and moved on to the next seat.

"No we're not, dummy," Devon snapped. "We're not going to the zoo."

"Mom! Devon called me dummy!"

"Don't call your brother dummy," Mrs. Sullivan said. 

"He's not my brother," Devon snapped. "I have a _real_ brother, and he's not—"

"Devon, stop it," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Now apologize to Connor."

"For what? He's _not_ my—"

"For calling him a dummy," Mrs. Sullivan said. 

"Sorry," Devon grumbled. Clint could tell he didn't mean it, but that never really seemed to be the point around here. He finished setting the table and went to get the bowl of salad from the kitchen to put on the table, figuring that was safe to put within reach since the Sullivans always had to fight with the boys to get them to eat it in the first place.

Mr. Sullivan came in then, shaking his head. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "Traffic was a mess."

"It's all right," Mrs. Sullivan said. "We were just getting ready to sit down."

"Dad, tell Devon that we're going to the zoo!" Connor said, scrambling up onto his knees in his chair.

Mr. Sullivan frowned. "We're not going to the zoo," he said.

Connor's face started to crumple. "But you _said_! You _promised_! You said we were going to the zoo! You said because it was free we were all going! YOU PROMISED!" His hands tightened into fists, and it was only a matter of time before things started flying. "YOUPROMISEDYOUPROMISEDYOU—"

" _Enough._ " Mr. Sullivan didn't shout, but his tone was enough to make Connor abruptly silent. Clint knew it wouldn't last. "It's not the zoo," he said. "It's the circus."

"See?" Devon said. "Told you. Dummy."

"MOM!"

"Sorry," Devon grumbled again.

"Everyone sit down. On your backside, Connor." Mrs. Sullivan set down the last of the dishes and waited until he was settled back into his chair properly before taking a seat herself. 

Clint tuned out while they said grace, stuck on what Mr. Sullivan had said. They were going to the circus. Which meant the circus was in town. Which meant... 

It probably meant nothing, he told himself. There were plenty of circuses around, although not as many as there used to be, back in the glory days or whatever the old folks called them. Unless a particular city was a guaranteed moneymaker, they didn't always hit up the same places year after year. And considering what had happened last time, he was pretty sure that his old crew would want to avoid this place like the plague.

"I got a ticket for you," Mr. Sullivan said. 

It took a minute for Clint to realize that he was talking to him. "Oh. Uh, thanks."

"I didn't know if you'd been interested, but it was free through work, and I could get up to eight tickets, so I got one for you, and one for Natasha, too, if she wants to come along."

For a second Clint forgot how to breathe, much less speak. He just stared at Mr. Sullivan, not knowing what to say. "When is it?" he asked. 

"Thursday night. I would have rather gotten tickets for the weekend but the free ones were for Thursday. I know you two have to work on Friday, but hopefully it won't run too late."

"I..." Clint swallowed. "I'll... I'll tell her."

"Just let me know. If she can't make it, I'm sure someone else at work will take the ticket."

Clint nodded, and then belatedly remembered the manners he'd never really been taught. "Thanks."

"Of course." Mr. Sullivan smiled at him. 

Clint tried to smile back, but failed. He turned his attention back to his dinner, cutting it into perfect cubes and pushing it around his plate, his appetite gone. He hadn't heard a word from Natasha since Saturday, and it was killing him. He didn't know how she was, or even where she was. He didn't know how the trial was going, whether she'd had to testify yet, if she'd made it through okay. He would have thought that they would at least let her send a text message or an email or something, but maybe they thought that the bad guys would somehow track him down and use the message to track back to her or something.

Which was pretty fucking far-fetched, but he guessed when the whole point of your life was to catch bad guys, you probably got pretty paranoid. And for all he knew, maybe it was possible, as crazy as it sounded. The last thing he wanted was to somehow lead to Natasha getting hurt. So he didn't complain.

He just slowly, bit by bit, drove himself crazy with worry.

"How come Clinton gets to bring a friend and I don't?" Devon demanded. "That's not fair!"

"Because Clinton is older, and he has earned the privilege," Mrs. Sullivan said. "As it is, if we get one more report about you fighting at camp, you won't be going either."

Devon's biological mother had turned up out of the blue a few months ago, after over a year without any contact, wanting visitation with him. Clint hadn't really been paying attention to any of it, but as far as he'd known it was going all right. Then two weekends ago the court had granted his mother an overnight visit, and he'd been acting out ever since, and the Sullivans were still trying to get to the bottom of why.

Sometimes he forgot he wasn't the only one with problems.

"It's because Natasha is his _girl_ friend!" Kevin interjected. "Right, Clinton? Isn't she your _girl_ friend?"

"She's a girl and she's my friend," Clint said. "So I guess that must make her my girlfriend." He smirked, and Kevin made a face, somewhere between amusement and disgust. 

"Are we going the zoo tomorrow?" Connor asked.

"We're not going to the zoo!" Devon snapped. "Why can't you—"

"Devon. _Enough._ " Mr. Sullivan looked at Connor. "We're going to the _circus_ the day after tomorrow."

"Is the circus like a zoo?"

"Well, they both have animals," Mrs. Sullivan said. "So it's like a zoo in that way. But there are also other things to see, like clowns and acrobats and things."

But Connor wasn't listening anymore, because he'd begun chanting, "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!"

"Lions and tigers, maybe," Clint said absently. "Probably not bears. More likely ponies and elephants or something."

Everyone turned to look at him. "How do you know that?" Devon demanded. "Are you some kind of circus freak?" Then he snickered at the unintended joke. 

"I grew up in a circus," Clint said. "But I wasn't a freak. I was mostly a roustie."

Kevin stared, his mouth hanging open, half full of food. "You grew up in a _circus_?" he asked.

"What's a roustie?" Devon asked.

"Roustabout. Jack-of-all-trades. Put sh—" He caught himself just in time. "—stuff up, take it back down."

"Did you have to shovel elephant crap?"

"Language, Devon," Mrs. Sullivan said. 

"Did you have to shovel elephant poop?"

"Some of us are trying to eat," Mr. Sullivan said dryly. 

"Sometimes," Clint said. "Mostly that was the elephant keepers' job, though, considering that elephants can be really temperamental and if you get too close and they're in a bad mood they could just decide to—"

" _Clinton,_ " Mr. Sullivan said. "I think that's enough." He nodded in Connor's direction.

"They could decide to try and give you a wedgie with their trunk," he finished, which made the younger boys laugh (even Devon smirked) and made Mr. Sullivan relax and maybe even almost smile. "Bet you didn't know elephants could do that, did you?"

The rest of the meal was relatively uneventful, and since he'd set the table he didn't have to help clean up after, so he retreated to his room and sent a text message to Natasha telling her about the circus, on the off chance that they actually gave her phone back to her. He sent one to Mr. Fury, too, hoping that maybe if Natasha couldn't get it directly from him at least he would pass along the message. 

He got a text message back Mr. Fury a while later, letting him know that he didn't think Natasha would be able to go anywhere on Thursday. Clint sent back a simple 'OK' even though it wasn't because everything else he might have wanted to say wasn't something he was willing to pass through someone else. Especially when that someone else was Natasha's foster father, and his principal.

He tried not to get his hopes up. He really did. He told himself that she was busy and they weren't going to let her get away and even if she had been able to, why would she even want to go to a stupid circus anyway? It would be a really lame date (wouldn't it?) and they would be stuck with the Sullivans which would just drive them both crazy and... 

... and no matter what he told himself, he was still ultimately disappointed when she didn't suddenly turn up on his doorstep just in time to get in the van with him and his foster family, like she'd turned up on Saturday.

So then he had to tell himself that it didn't mean anything, that it was just because they were keeping a close eye on her and wouldn't let her get away and it didn't actually mean anything about _them_ , and that was a little easier to believe. 

But for a few minutes, he was just cursing her for teaching him the meaning of hope, because now it had become a habit, and he couldn't quite convince himself it was a good one.

*

The circus was a tent show, not one of those arena monstrosities, and had a small carnival associated with it. Each of the younger boys was given ten dollars to do with what they wanted, with the understanding that once the money was gone, it was gone, and they weren't going to get any more. Clint waved Mr. Sullivan off when he tried to give him the same.

"Are you sure? You don't need to spend your work money on this; it's a family outing."

"I'm fine," Clint said. He didn't tell his foster father that if he wanted anything, he could talk it out of whoever he wanted it from. This wasn't his show and these weren't his people, but they all spoke the same language.

Mr. Sullivan handed him his ticket. "Meet us when the show starts," he said, and let him loose to wander on his own.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been out of the house and by himself. At work he was constantly surrounded by people. At home he hid in his room whenever possible. The rest of the time if he went anywhere, it was with Natasha at his side. He felt her absence like a wound.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and took a picture of the tent, texting it to her even though he knew she wouldn't get it. Except maybe she would. The trial wouldn't go on forever. Maybe it had ended today, even, or maybe it would tomorrow. How long could these things drag on? They couldn't keep her locked away forever.

But then... What happened then? What happened when the trial was over, and the authorities didn't need her anymore to testify in their case. What happened when she was no longer useful? Could they send her back then? He'd never thought to ask her. They just deal with each crisis as it came, and didn't think much past that moment. It had been easier, but now...

They'd come this far. He couldn't lose her now. So what would happen?

They would run. She'd already answered that. They would run far and fast and disappear so that no one could ever find her and make her go back to a place that held nothing for her. Maybe they would come here, or somewhere like here, until they found something better. 

She could be his lovely assistant, Clint thought, and actually ducked slightly before he remembered (again, painfully) that Natasha wasn't there to smack him upside the head. He bumped his way through the crowd, joining the line at the nearest food stall and shoving money across the counter because he couldn't speak around the lump in his throat to try and charm it out of the woman behind the counter.

Food in hand, he followed the crowd toward the tent, and then found his seat with the Sullivans. He wanted the aisle seat, but Mrs. Sullivan had that, with Connor at her side, in case they needed to make a quick exit. So he found himself sandwiched between Mr. Sullivan and a stranger who smelled of cheap cigarettes... which reminded him of 'Tasha and her barely filtered Russian brand and he nearly choked on the lump of sugary dough that he was attempting to chew and swallow. Part of him was tempted to ask to bum one, but he couldn't smoke in the tent and Mr. Sullivan would kill him anyway.

And then the show started, and for a little while he lost himself in it, even if he kept turning to whisper something to the half of him that wasn't there. He'd never actually watched the circus from the audience before, but he knew all of the work that went on behind the scenes, and he found himself peering into the shadows, searching for a glimpse of those who made it happen. 

Habit, maybe, or wishful thinking? He didn't know. Did he miss this world?

Yeah. Yeah, he did.

He barely noticed when Mrs. Sullivan had to take Connor out because he was starting to get antsy, talking too loud and rocking back and forth like he might bolt any second. The rest of them remained until then end, and Clint trailed a little ways behind them as they made their way out of the tent.

He turned for one last look, one last picture that Natasha might not see, and bumped into someone in the process.

"Watch it, kid," he snapped. 

There was something familiar in the voice. Clint turned in time to see a flash of blond hair and a slouching gait, taking the figure away before Clint got a chance to see his face. 

"Clinton!" Mrs. Sullivan's voice cut through all of the other noise, even for him. "We're leaving. Now!"

Clint shook his head. It wasn't. It couldn't be.

He would have to get someone to bring him back. 

He had to know for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted another "deleted scene" today, which occurs on the same day that Clint goes to the circus. It can be found here: [Testify](http://archiveofourown.org/works/901614).


	53. Chapter 53

Clint had to wait for the Sullivans to go to bed, which took longer than usual because the boys were having a hard time settling down after the circus. But he couldn't risk them overhearing the conversation (and possibly argument) he was about to have, because there was no way they would let him leave the house again tonight, even with everyone's favorite boy scout.

He kept picking up his phone and putting it down again, watching the minutes tick by. As it got closer and closer to midnight, he started to think that maybe he should just wait until the next day to deal with it, but he didn't know how long the circus was in town, for one thing, and even if it was there for a few days, people in that world had a habit of coming and going more or less as they pleased. So no, he had to strike while the kettle was black.

No, that wasn't right. Well, whatever the saying was.

He finally thought enough time had passed that there was no way his foster parents could still be up. He poked his head out into the hallway and saw that their door was closed, which meant that barring some kind of catastrophe, they were done for the night.

He scrolled through his contacts (it didn't take long) and tapped on Steve's name. 

"H'lo?" The voice was muffled, the tone confused.

"Steve? It's Clint."

"Clint? Whaddayou want?" There was a pause, then he said a bit more clearly (and politely), "What's going on?"

"I need your help." Because the Sullivans might be willing to forgive him for sneaking out, but he was pretty sure that grand theft auto was more than they could stomach. 

"Do you know what time it is?" Steve asked.

"It's not that late, _Mom_ ," Clint said, trying to keep his tone light. "It's barely after eleven."

"And we both have to be up and at the camp by seven tomorrow, which means there's no way you can possibly get eight hours of sleep between now and then," Steve said, in a tone that Clint was sure was meant to illuminate to him the error of his ways. 

"Sleep is for the weak and tomorrow is Friday anyway. I'll sleep on the weekend. So are you going to help me or not?"

"With what?" Steve asked. His tone shifted again, an edge of worry creeping into it. "Does this have to do with Natasha?"

"No," Clint said. No more than anything else in his life did, anyway... which was quite a bit, really, but he tried not to think about how much she'd wormed her way in, and how bad it sucked not having her around. It would be over soon. He just kept telling himself that. 

"When is she coming back from vacation?" Steve asked. Because that was the lie that Clint had told him when he asked, because he couldn't remember how much Steve knew, and he didn't want him making a big deal about it. 

Clint shrugged, forgetting that Steve couldn't see him, and that unlike Natasha, he couldn't simply intuit the meaning of the silence on the other end of the line. 

"You still there?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "She'll be back soon. I forget what day exactly." _And forget I mean I don't know, and can we please change the subject?_ "It doesn't have to do with her anyway. I just need you to drive me somewhere."

"Sure," Steve said. "Of course. But... you couldn't have waited 'til tomorrow to ask?"

"No," Clint said. "Because I need to go now."

Clint imagined Steve's jaw dropping. "Now? Like _right_ now? Almost midnight now?"

"That's generally what someone means when they say now, yeah," Clint said. "Is that a problem?"

"Where can you possibly need to go at almost midnight on a Thursday night? Are you _sure_ it has nothing to do with Natasha?" 

Clint had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping at him that yes, he was sure, and damn it, would he just shut up already? "I'm sure. I just..." How could he explain this? How could he get Steve to see how important it was that he get to the circus grounds right now, tonight, without actually telling him why? "My foster parents took us all to the circus tonight," he said. "I need to go back. I... I think I left something there... something important... and I need to see if it's there."

It was even almost the truth. Just a really slanted version of it. But what Steve didn't know couldn't hurt him.

"And it _really_ can't wait until morning?" Steve asked.

"No," Clint said. "Because it wouldn't just have to wait until morning, it would have to wait until after work tomorrow, and by then they'll be setting up for another show and there will be crowds of people and it's just going to make it harder to even look, never mind find. You don't have to do anything except drive me there and wait for me, and then drive me back."

He didn't want to do it. Clint knew that Steve didn't want to do it. He also knew that Steve was the kind of person who found it really, really hard to say no to his friends. (Although Clint got the feeling that if it was something that would potentially put someone in danger he would put his foot down pretty firmly. He wasn't spineless, just accommodating.) Also, Clint suspected that Steve still felt like he owed them something for graduation and the funeral and everything. He didn't, but right now Clint was willing to exploit it. 

And no, he didn't think of himself as a particularly good person for doing it.

"All right," Steve said, heaving a sigh. "I'm assuming I shouldn't pull right up to the house."

Another thing Steve wasn't was stupid. Trusting, yes. Stupid, no. "Just stop at the corner. I'll meet you." 

Clint left a note for the Sullivans, telling him that there'd been an emergency with one of his friends and that he had to go out, and he didn't want to wake them and his phone was on if they needed him. He would still be in deep shit if they came to check on him for some reason and found him not there, but at least the note would probably prevent the police from being called.

He snuck down the stairs and out the door, walking to the corner and propping himself against a lamppost to wait. Steve arrived a few minutes later and Clint got in the car. 

"I'm assuming you know how to get there," Steve said. He looked like he'd thrown on whatever was closest when he got dressed. His t-shirt was on inside-out. Clint didn't point it out because the last thing he needed was Steve trying to fix it while driving.

"Yeah." He gave Steve the directions, which were simple enough, and leaned back in his seat, staring out the window. He hoped that Steve wouldn't decide to start asking more questions about what exactly it was that he needed to look for. 

They arrived at the circus grounds, and Clint warned Steve to park fairly far away. He didn't want to draw attention to them if he could avoid it. There were still spots of light, which meant there were still people awake, which was both good and bad. Good because it meant that if the person he'd seen was, in fact, his brother, he would probably still up and about unless he'd drastically changed his sleeping schedule in the past year. Bad because it meant there were more of a chance of him being spotted by someone else and stopped before he could get anywhere near, and then he'd have plenty of explaining to do. 

He made his way to the village of trailers that had sprung up a little ways away from the main tent and slunk between them, keeping his head down and his shoulders slumped, the posture of someone who didn't want to be noticed. But his eyes darted back and forth, scanning everyone he saw with a quick up-and-down, confirming their identity as not the one he was looking for.

Until it was.

Clint stopped dead, dropping back half a step as the figure turned, and he caught another glimpse of his face. There was no mistaking him: it was Barney. 

He pressed himself hard against the side of the trailer that he was hiding behind, trying to figure out what to do. He'd dreamed of this moment, and had nightmares about it. Now every single one of them was coming true in his imagination, all at once, and he was frozen, unable to act because he had no idea what the right thing to do was.

He could just saunter out, say hello, how are things going, glad to see you're alive. Play it like it was no big deal. But he had serious doubts about whether he would be able to pull that off. His brother had abandoned him. The circus had taken off, leaving him behind, and Barney had gone with it and made no attempt to contact him in the year... more than a year now... since the day that their world had gone up in smoke and flames.

But what if that wasn't what had happened? What if that was just what he assumed, and it wasn't the truth? After all, this wasn't the same outfit that they'd been with. It was a different show, a different crew. Maybe they'd left Barney behind, too, but because Barney was an adult they'd sent him to a different hospital, or a different wing or something, and he hadn't known he was there and then when he was released it was just out into the world instead of social services, and maybe he _had_ tried to find him but by then he'd already disappeared into the system that had been their bogeyman for most of their lives: behave yourself or the police will come take you away and put you in the system.

Or he could just walk away. Barney was alive; he could be sure of that now. He had a new life now, new friends, Natasha. He didn't need that life back, and maybe it was better to just let it go. But didn't he owe it to his brother to let him know that he was alive, too? If anything, Barney probably was more worried about him than he had been about his older brother. He was the one who'd disappeared, after all. Maybe he'd spent the whole last year wondering if Clint was even alive.

Barney was family. He definitely owed him at least that much.

Clint pushed himself away from the side of the trailer, one foot dragging forward as he tried to take that first step.

And then he turned tail and ran (well, walked quickly – he still didn't want to draw anyone's attention) back to Steve's car. "Let's go," he said before he'd even gotten the door shut behind him.

Steve looked over, his eyebrows going up as he took in Clint's pale, sweaty face and the way he was breathing so hard he was practically panting. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just drive. We're probably trespassing or something."

Steve put the car in gear and headed back for the main road. "Did you find it at least? What you were looking for?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "Yeah. I found it."

"That's good," Steve said, and then was quiet the rest of the trip home, for which Clint was grateful.

When he got back to the house, he was relieved to find that there were no police cars outside, and no one seemed to have stirred. He grabbed the note from his bed and started tearing it into pieces, and couldn't make himself stop until it was reduced to confetti... which he flushed down the toilet along with the fried dough that had decided to make an abrupt reappearance as adrenaline ebbed and nausea took over.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Mr. Fury. When he didn't answer, he dialed again, and again, until finally the man picked up and growled into the phone, "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yes sir," Clint said. "Put Natasha on the phone."

"No," Mr. Fury said. "You know I can't do that."

Damn it. He didn't want to play this game. "Yes, you can. You're not supposed to, but you can. I need to talk to her."

"She's had a long day," Mr. Fury said. "She needs to sleep."

"So have I, and I need to talk to her. Please. I need to talk to her. _Now._ " Clint was shaking like he had a fever and chills both, and damn it all, what was _wrong_ with him? It was just his brother, just Barney. So what if he'd basically written him off months ago? So what if he'd assumed he would never see him again, and made peace with that fact? 

"If she's asleep, I'm not waking her up," Mr. Fury said.

"Okay," Clint said, and hoped like hell that Natasha was as sleepless as he was tonight.

There was a long pause, silence, and then, "Clint?"

"'Tasha." He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Tell me something."

"Is good to hear your voice," she said. "That is something."

"It's good to hear your voice too," he said, and god was it ever. The sound of her voice flowed through him, untying knots of tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying. Soft and husky, her accent milder now after all these months, easier for him to understand. "Tell me something else."

But she said nothing as Clint pushed himself up off the tiles and made his way back to his room, curling up around one of his pillows. He could still hear something, faintly, but he wasn't sure what until her voice came through again, choked and thick. "Once when I live in orphanage in Russia, we find a dog – not a puppy but not all the way grown, I think – and we sneak him in. He stinks and he has fleas, but we think he will be our pet. Somehow we will hide him and no one will find out. We even manage it for a few days, but then they notice we are stealing food to feed him and one of the girls tells because she does not want to be punished."

Clint squeezes his eyes tight, swallowing hard. "Did you get punished?"

"Not really," Natasha said. "We live in orphanage. There is not much they can take from us when we have little to begin with. They just take dog away. I don't know what they do with it. I hope they just set it free back out in street."

"What else..." Clint started to ask, but then decided he could guess and really didn't want to hear it confirmed. "Do you like dogs?"

"I like them well enough."

"Maybe we'll get a dog."

"The Sullivans, they will love that." 

He couldn't tell if she was joking. "Not now. Later. When we have our own place."

"Oh yes? You are already planning this?" 

He couldn't read her tone, and he wished she was here so that he could see her face. Had he upset her? He'd just assumed... but everyone knew what happened when you assumed. "Sorry. I didn't—"

"Don't be," she said sharply. "No sorry. Tell me."

But he couldn't. No words would come. It was all he could do to get air into his lungs.

A second passed, and then another. "Is okay," she said when the silence stretched too long. "Is okay, Clint. I tell you."

Her voice was gentle now, wrapping around him and holding him soft. He could almost feel her fingers in his hair, stroking his temples. He buried his face in the pillow, the phone pressed hard against his ear, and hoped she couldn't hear the sound of his tears.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone missed it, I posted a [bonus chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/531381/chapters/1753895) on Wednesday, which you'll obviously want to read before this one. 
> 
> I also posted a "deleted scene" that shows the end of that chapter from Natasha's point of view, which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/911849). 
> 
> There will be another bonus chapter this Wednesday.

Clint almost called in sick to work the next day, but realized that it wouldn't actually do him any good, because he wouldn't have any way to get to the circus grounds. Mr. Sullivan was at work, and Mrs. Sullivan would ask too many questions... and never agree to it even if he actually decided to tell her the truth. She'd probably take him to his shrink instead. Which left Steve, and Steve would be at work and there was no way that he would skip it.

It would just have to wait until after. He told Mrs. Sullivan when she dropped him off that Steve would be bringing him home later, and not to wait for him for dinner because they would probably just go out somewhere. She didn't argue. Maybe he'd actually managed to win himself a few brownie points by going along on the family outing the day before... and not getting caught when he snuck out after.

He cornered Steve at the end of the day, after he'd said goodbye to all of his other friends. "I need you to take me back," he said without preamble.

"Why?" Steve asked, his eyebrows lowering, his expression filled with concern. "I thought you found what you were looking for?"

"I just... I need to go back, and I don't have a car or I'd just drive myself."

"You don't have a license either," Steve pointed out.

Clint rolled his eyes. "I'm working on that. Just... please. I'll give you gas money or whatever. I just need you to drive me."

"Why?" Steve asked again. He jiggled his keys in his hand, and for a minute Clint was tempted to just grab them and run, take the car and just drive himself there. What would Steve do about it? He wouldn't call the cops. 

But he might call the Sullivans, and that was worse. He shoved his hands in his pockets, suppressing the urge. "We're friends, right? Isn't a big part of friendship trust? Can't you just trust me on this one?"

"I trusted you last night," Steve pointed out. 

"See? And that turned out fine," Clint replied. "So what's the problem?"

"The problem is that a big part of friendship is trust. And I'm your friend, but I'm also Natasha's friend. And since she's not here to look out for you, I'm sure she'd want to know that someone else is. I'm sure she _trusts_ me to do that for her when she can't."

_Damn it._ What was it he'd told himself about Steve not being stupid? He probably should have remembered that this time around, too.

"I took you where you needed to go and I didn't ask questions when you got back to the car looking like you'd seen a ghost," Steve said. "Now I'm asking."

"Never mind," Clint said. "Can you just give me a ride home then?"

"Sure," Steve said. Clint followed him to his car and dumped himself in the passenger's seat. He should have stolen the keys when he had the chance. Steve slid in behind the wheel but didn't start the car. "What's going on, Clint?"

"Nothing," Clint said. "Just forget it, will you?"

"No," Steve said. "I won't." He looked over at Clint, his gaze steady. "Is it Natasha?"

Clint shook his head, even though it was sort of her, because everything in his life was sort of her.

"Is something going on at home?"

He shook his head again. What did that word mean, anyway? To Steve it meant the house where he'd grown up, where his parents had watched over him until they died, and where he still probably had happy memories tucked in all of the corners. For Clint it had never been a fixed place. His home had been people, and they weren't even particularly good ones, and he'd thought they were gone and now...

"What's at the circus?" Steve asked. "I've been trying to figure it out all night, what you might have lost there that could be so important since it wasn't your phone and it wasn't your wallet."

Clint stared down at his hands. He hadn't told Natasha. He'd gotten a chance to talk to her last night and he hadn't told her, and he should have. Telling Steve first felt like a betrayal, but Steve was here and she wasn't and he wasn't going to help without some kind of explanation and damn it all.

"I told you I grew up in the circus," Clint said. "Right? I told you all that once." Steve nodded, waiting patiently for him to go on. "A year ago, there was an accident and both my parents were killed. I didn't know what happened to my brother." He took a deep breath, looked over at Steve. "I saw him last night. I thought I saw him, so I made you bring me back and I definitely saw him the second time, but I didn't talk to him, and... I should. I need to. So I need to go back."

"Oh," Steve said. "Wow." He poked at the keys where they dangled from the ignition, setting them jingling. "I didn't know you had a brother. I mean, other than your foster ones."

"Neither did I for sure anymore," Clint said. "Not 'til last night." He looked over at Steve, a quick glance then away. "So will you take me?"

"Do your foster parents know?" Steve asked.

"They know I'm with you," Clint said. "I told them we were probably going somewhere after work."

Steve stared out the windshield, and Clint could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he made his decision. "All right," he said finally. "I'll take you."

"Thank you," Clint said, and he would have sighed with relief except he wasn't actually sure that he _was_ relieved, because it would have absolved him of any commitment to reconnect with Barney, and wherever that might lead, if he just hadn't been able to get back. Now he was in it, and there wasn't any going back, and he would have to deal with whatever hand life dealt him.

Alone.

But that was better, wasn't it? He couldn't drag Natasha into his shit. She had enough to deal with on her own without getting tangled up in the mess that his life had once been and might be about to become all over again. She was better off.

He pushed the thought away because it hurt too much to think about. But it was the truth. Once the trial was over, once she was finally free, she wouldn't need him anymore, and it would only be a matter of time before she figured that out. 

"What do we do now?" Steve asked as he parked his car. They wouldn't be opening the big top for a little while yet, but there were already others arriving, and Clint had somehow forgotten that that would be the case.

"I guess... we go to the circus," Clint said. "It'll have to wait 'til after." 

"I haven't been to the circus in a long time," Steve said. "Not since I was a little kid."

"Well, prepare yourself to feast your eyes and have your spine tingled and all that," Clint said, the corner of his mouth quirking. He got out of the car and spread his arms wide. "Welcome to my world."

*

Watching Steve was a lot more fun than watching the show a second time, but Clint couldn't even really enjoy _that_ because he was too busy trying to spot Barney in the shadows. He thought he saw him once or twice, but it was hard to be sure. When the show was over and everyone was filing out, Clint nudged Steve. "You don't have to wait around. I'll just... call or something. When I'm done."

Steve's eyebrows went up. "I'm not leaving you here alone," he said. "No way."

"I know what I'm doing," Clint said. "This was my life until a year ago. Nothing's gonna happen to me."

"I'm still not leaving," Steve said. "If you want I'll go wait in the car, but I'm not going any farther than that."

Clint shouldn't have been surprised. He rolled his eyes to cover up the fact that he was actually sort of glad that Steve was insisting. "Yeah, fine, if it makes you happy."

"My sketchbook is there," Steve said, "and I've got some ideas. I'll be able to keep myself busy."

"I'll try not to be too long," Clint said.

"Take all the time you need," Steve told him, flashing him his easy boy scout smile. "I'll wait."

"Thanks," he mumbled, and then did his best to fade into the woodwork so that no one would come along and escort him out.

It was over an hour before things really wound down and the performers and crew made their way back to their little trailer city. Clint inserted him into a small group of people, trailing behind them at enough of a distance that they didn't give him much notice, but close enough that he wouldn't alert anyone who happened to glance their way that there was a stranger in their midst, wandering alone.

He found Barney sitting at a small table, wolfing down what was attempting to pass for dinner like he didn't expect to get another meal soon. "Long time no see," he said, sliding into a seat across from him, hoping he looked and sounded more nonchalant than he felt. Sweat was trickling down his spine and ribs, and he felt ready to leap out of his own skin.

Barney looked up and his jaw dropped. It was a pretty gruesome sight, since he hadn't actually bothered to swallow. It took longer than it should have for him to remember to close it and finish chewing. "Clint?"

"Who else would it be?" Clint asked. 

"Shit. _Holy. Shit._ " And then Barney was on his feet and around the end of the table, and he hauled Clint up and hugged him so tight it hurt, and so fast Clint barely had a chance to respond. His brother released the hug but kept his arm around Clint's shoulder, his grip like a vise. "Hey everybody!" he called. "Everybody, look who turned up! It's the prodigal son! It's my brother, Clint!"

Clint had never been shy, but suddenly being the center of the attention of a bunch of people who he didn't know but who seemed to know him was not what he had come here for. He'd thought... But it didn't much matter what he'd thought, because Barney had ideas of his own about how this reunion was going to go.

So he grinned and bore it, shaking hands and accepting pats on the back from carnies of all stripes, telling him how great it was to meet him and how much they'd heard about him. Apparently Barney talked about him all the time, his little brother the sharpshooter, the kid cupid who couldn't miss.

"I knew that we were near where it happened," Barney said when the hubbub had died down again, "but I had no idea you were going to show up. I didn't know what happened to you, and they weren't telling me nothing. I barely remember anything for days after. I just remember the explosion, and getting knocked down, and then waking up in some city hundreds of miles away and they were telling me my – our – parents were dead and you were gone and _damn_ but you're back!" He grinned at Clint, shaking him by the shoulders. "I ain't got a lot of clout here, not yet, but I work hard and you made a name for yourself so it shouldn't be hard getting you a place, maybe even starting tomorrow, if you're up for it."

"I... what?" The words were coming out of his brother's mouth so fast that even though Clint was hearing them, he wasn't sure he was actually really grasping what he was saying. A place? Like, a job? His brother thought he was going to join back up—but of course his brother thought that. What else would he think? It was the only life they'd ever known.

"Probably should wait 'til morning," Barney said. "I share a trailer with some of the other guys but we can make room for one more, no problem. I can show you now if you want. You tired?" He glanced at his wrist, but there was no watch there. "Man, I can't believe you're here, little brother. I thought I'd lost you."

Clint didn't know what to say. His head was spinning; he felt like he'd gotten onto a rollercoaster without knowing what the track looked like, and now he was trapped on it with no idea when it might end. "I'm okay," he said. 

"You want a drink?" Barney didn't wait for him to answer, just got up and fished two beers out of a cooler, handing one to Clint. "It's been a year, hasn't it? Damn. A whole year. What have you been up to?" He settled back down at one of the tables, propping his feet up on a spare chair.

Clint sat down opposite him, finding that now that he had the chance to talk, everything he'd thought he wanted to say had flown out of his head, and he finally just lifted the bottle to his lips, draining half of it in a few swallows. It went straight to his head, and when had he become such a lightweight?

"I ended up in the hospital," he said finally. "After the explosion. I guess I was out of it for a while, and when I woke up everyone was gone, and there were cops and everything around, deciding what they were gonna do with me." 

"And you told 'em to fuck off, right?" Barney said with a laugh. "You told 'em you didn't need anyone deciding your life for you."

Clint shrugged. "I didn't really know what was going on until it was pretty much too late," he said. "The explosion... maybe I was closer to it than you, I dunno, but... it fucked up my ears. Blew out my eardrums or something. Made me deaf."

Barney's forehead furrowed. "Huh. But you got better, obviously."

"No," Clint said. "I just got hearing aids." He turned his head so that Barney could see, and wondered how he'd missed them in the first place. 

"Shit," Barney said, leaning forward to peer at them. "Well that sucks." He leaned back in his chair, obviously thinking this over. "But maybe not," he said after a minute. "I mean, it wouldn't be as amazing as, say, a blind archer who never missed, but a deaf one – that could have some draw. Adds to your aura of mystery or something, I dunno. Anyway, I don't see why it would make a difference as long as you can still shoot." He paused, his eyes widening. "You _can_ still shoot, can't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"Well then we're fine. We just gotta talk to the boss-man in the morning, get it all squared away, but he ain't gonna turn down a new act. Pay won't be great, probably, but we got food, we got shelter, and now we got family again. What more do we really need?"

_Natasha,_ Clint thought. _I need Natasha. I need Natasha here, now, because this is all happening too fast and I don't even really know **what** is happening, and she would find some way to make it all make sense if she was just **here**._

"I can't stay tonight," Clint finally managed. "I got a friend waiting for me."

Barney laughed. " _You?_ Have _friends_?" 

It was meant to be a joke, Clint was (pretty) sure, but he couldn't make himself laugh, or even manage more than a half-cocked smile. "Yeah, I got friends. Amazing, ain't it? But anyway, he's waiting to take me home, and—"

Barney frowned. "You _are_ home, little brother." And then he finally thought to ask, "Where've you been staying at?"

"They put me in foster care. I've been staying with a family the past year. Going to school, the whole nine." Clint shrugged. 

That made his brother go straight back to laughing. "You? In school? I bet that went well."

"I did okay," Clint said, trying not to get defensive. "I ain't stupid."

"Course not. But what do you care about who won the battle of wherever back in the day?" Barney rolled his eyes. "So you went to school. Good for you. But you don't need any of that anymore."

"I still gotta go back," Clint said. "All my stuff is there."

"Yeah, okay," Barney said, like Clint had finally said something that made sense. "Go back and get it, say goodbye to your friends or whatever you gotta do, come back in the morning and we'll get things sorted out here." He got up and pulled Clint into another hug. "It's good to have your back, little brother. It really is."

"Yeah," Clint agreed, not sure if he meant it. "It's good to be back."


	55. Chapter 55

He lied to the Sullivans and told them that he was spending the weekend with Steve. He lied to Steve and told him that the Sullivans were picking him up later. He lied to himself when he said that the fact that he'd actually packed his stuff and brought it with him didn't mean anything.

He didn't lie to Natasha because he didn't get a chance, and maybe he wouldn't have. Maybe he _couldn't_ have. And maybe it wouldn't have mattered one way or another because he wouldn't even be considering any of this if she was actually around.

And he had to face facts. She might be gone. This might be the new normal, because if things didn't go the right way at the trial, or if the FBI decided she just wouldn't be safe, they could make her disappear, and if they did that would she try to reach out, try to get word to him of where she'd been taken, where she'd gone, how he could find her? Or would she decide that he was safer without her and let him go, thinking it was the right thing to do?

 _This is why you don't get attached, little brother._

It was as if Barney was speaking right into his ear, but Barney wasn't even around. He was in the "office" talking to whoever was in charge around here, trying to convince them to give his little brother a chance. Barney had always been the better talker; Clint was sure he was making a good pitch. 

_Just roll into town, have a few laughs, have a little fun, and keep going. It ain't about feelings._

He wondered if Barney would conveniently forget to mention the fact that he was underage. Probably, since it would only be for a few months anyway. He didn't know what he was hoping to hear when his brother finally emerged from the trailer, and he didn't know what he felt when his brother said, "No promises, but he's willing to give you a shot – no pun intended – tonight. See how people react to you."

"The crew?" Clint asked. 

Barney laughed, slapping Clint on the back. "The _crowd_ , doofus. You think I'm just gonna talk him into hiring you as another pair of hands when you're the fucking Hawkeye? No way. So come on. We gotta find you something to wear."

*

He'd missed this. He hadn't realized how much until he was back in the middle of it all, falling back into old patterns with new people, because the faces changed but at the core one group of circus folk was pretty much like any other. Because he was Barney's brother, and because Barney seemed to have made himself fairly popular in a short period of time, they accepted him without too many questions or sidelong looks.

And it felt good. It felt right. Especially when he stepped into the ring with his bow in his hand and did what he did best. He'd kept his hearing aids in, knowing that when it mattered he could drown out any amount of background noise, but wanting to be able to hear the crowd's reactions, every gasp and cheer. After all, it might be his future on the line here.

It seemed to last forever and barely a moment all at once. He left the ring to the sounds of whistles and applause, and found himself grinning ear to ear... and looking around for Natasha so he could share the moment with her.

But Natasha wasn't there, and it all came crashing down. 

What was he doing? What was he thinking? This wasn't his life now; this wasn't his home. Because it was stupid and cliché but home really _was_ where the heart is, at least for him, and last he'd checked his heart was in Natasha's pocket, or pinned to her collar, maybe. With her, anyway, somewhere, and it didn't matter how good it felt to slip back into what was familiar, without her none of it meant a damn thing.

 _I need to go back,_ he thought. _How the hell am I gonna get back?_ He couldn't call Steve again. He'd asked too much of him already, gotten him too tangled up in all this mess. The Sullivans thought he was with Steve, and there would be too many questions that he didn't have answers to if he called them from here for a ride. Thor? Was on vacation, he thought. Mr. Fury was with Natasha, and probably still pissed at him for the other night.

 _Fuck._

Well, it probably wouldn't kill him to just stick around 'til morning. He could figure it out then. Anyway, it would be rude to pass up the congratulations (and beer) that was being tossed his way.

*

Sunday was the circus' last day in town, and their last show was a matinee. Barney's boss had decided to have him do another trial run, an audition, so to speak, saying he was still on the fence about the whole thing. Barney figured he was just saying that to get another show out of Clint without having to pay him. He said there was no way he was going to leave Clint behind.

 _Again,_ Clint wanted to say, and it was bitter on his tongue. _There's no way you're going to leave me behind again._

"We gotta really get the crowd going today," Barney said. "Prove to him you're worth it. I got an idea."

"What?" Clint asked.

"It's a good idea," Barney said. "Just trust me." He had that look on his face, that self-satisfied smirk that told Clint that there was nothing he could do to get it out of him, up to and including threatening not to go on at all. So he didn't bother trying.

The show started, and Clint waited behind the scenes, watching his brother and everyone else go about their business. They all seemed so sure of themselves, knowing where to be and what to do at any given moment. They knew their place here, knew their place in the world.

He wasn't sure he knew anything anymore. 

But it was his turn in the spotlight, so out he went, game face on. His breathing slowed – everything slowed – when he was shooting, and it was the only time everything seemed to fall into place and make sense. 

Almost. Almost the only time. The only other time was—

Almost. As in almost missed the target. He shoved every thought out of his head except where the arrow in his hand needed to be, and how to get it there.

And then the targets stopped, and the ringmaster was coming out, his arms up. "For this next shot, we're going to need a volunteer from the crowd. A volunteer who is not afraid to look death straight in the eye."

 _Aw, Barney, what the hell?_ This reeked of his brother's meddling all over. Not that it mattered; he could hit whatever they tossed his way. But he didn't actually like interacting with the crowd much. He didn't like all of the banter that went along with it, the interruption to his calm as the ringmaster hyped up the crowd. 

"You!" the ringmaster said finally, pointing. "You there, with the red hair."

Clint looked. Stupid, but he looked. And his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, because You There With The Red Hair was exactly who he'd thought it couldn't possibly be.

"What's your name?" the ringmaster asked.

"Natasha," she said, and the microphone picked it up and made it echo off the canvas, or maybe his hearing aids were just malfunctioning or maybe it was all in his head. 

"Natasha. Well, Natasha, you're a very brave girl."

 _You have no idea,_ Clint thought. 

She said nothing, so the ringmaster continued. "Natasha, are you ready to look death in the eye?"

"No," she said, which got a laugh from the crowd, and threw the ringmaster off. Clint could see the barest of smirks tugging at the corner of her lips. He didn't know what she was playing at, and should she even be here? Should she be calling attention to herself like this? Mr. Fury would be... well, furious. Probably. But he must know. Right? 

"No?"

"Why I should be afraid of death?" Natasha asked. "He will not miss." 

"You seem very confident," the ringmaster said. "I like that."

Natasha just shrugged, and then allowed herself to be backed up against a giant target. For a second Clint was afraid that they were going to strap her there somehow, and he wouldn't have known what to do if they'd tried. But no, a shiny red apple appeared and was placed on her head... and that was it? 

That wasn't even a challenge, as long as she held still. Her eyes burned into his as he drew the bow and took aim. There was no sound (or maybe he just couldn't hear it) from the crowd, until the collective gasp as he released the arrow, and then the raucous applause as Natasha stepped out from under the apple that was now pinned to the target. He reached out and took her hand, and together they bowed and left the ring. 

Out of the spotlight and into the shadows, he didn't let go. Someone approached, ready to take Natasha back to her seat, but Clint held up a hand to stop him. "Unless you want to go back?" She shook her head no. "She's with me."

That got him a knowing look and a wink, and Clint didn't bother to correct him. He just led her outside to the trailer where he'd stayed the night before. She waited outside while he changed, turning to squint up at him as he came back out again. 

"So they let you out again?" he asked, dropping down to sit on the small step next to her, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. 

"Yes. He refuse last offer of plea, last chance to give up names, so now it goes to jury and they decide. There is no more testimony, nothing more to say, and I won't let them keep me locked up anymore. I say I am not criminal, why I am prisoner? They do not like it, but they let me go." 

"Is it safe?" 

Natasha shrugged. "Maybe I will never be safe," she said. "But I can't live my life like that. I think I will go crazy, so many days with nothing and no one."

"Yeah," Clint agreed. He hadn't been as isolated as she was, but he could understand the sentiment. "How'd you know I was here?"

"Steve," Natasha said. "I call you, you do not answer. I call Sullivans, they say you are with Steve. I call Steve, he says he think he knows where you are, and he brings me here." Her forehead furrows slightly, not asking the question of how Steve knew more about what was going on with him than she does although she clearly wants to, or maybe she's just annoyed because she knows the answer.

"So Steve's here?"

"He is still watch the show."

Clint nodded, glancing around to make sure no one was watching before he reached out to touch her arm, his fingers circling her wrist, his hand closing around hers. He didn't say anything; it didn't seem like he needed to.

"This is your circus?" Natasha asked.

"No. Different one. But... Barney's here. My brother. He's the one who talked them into letting me perform."

She nodded like she knew, and maybe Steve had told her. He wouldn't have known it was a secret. Hell, it _wasn't_ a secret, was it? He would have told her if he'd been able to. 

It was as if saying his name summoned him, because all of a sudden there Barney was, clapping him on the shoulder. "I won't interrupt, but I just wanted to say that I'm pretty sure that after that, you're in." Then he laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that made Clint want to punch him, because he knew exactly why Barney was laughing and he didn't like it. 

"What he means, 'in'?" Natasha asked when Barney had walked away again.

And now he was queasy as well as pissed off, because how could he explain this? Did he even need to? It wasn't going to happen. He wasn't going anywhere.

"He thinks I'm gonna stay with the circus," Clint said. "He thinks I was auditioning for a job."

Natasha extricated her arm from his grip. "Were you?" He opened his mouth and no words came out. Damn it, why had his voice suddenly going AWOL? He only had to say one word, and he couldn't even manage that. She looked away. "You are happy here." 

It wasn't a question, but he didn't have an answer.

"You could," she said after a moment. "Maybe would be better for you."

"What?" Clint shook his head. How could leaving be better? Unless she was going to go with him. Maybe that's what she meant. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that I would not stop you if this is what you want to do." She still wasn't looking at him as she took half a step backward. "You are happy here."

Or maybe it wasn't. He couldn't be hearing her right. She couldn't be saying what he thought she was saying. And he had to understand. "Are you... breaking up with me?" he asked, his hands forming the words even as he spoke them. They weren't the right words, though. They were too high school romantic comedy, too normal, too anyone but them.

"I am setting you free," she said. 

"Setting...?" _What?!_ Clint wanted to grab her, to force her to look at him because he couldn't hear her. He chose to believe that that was the problem. He couldn't hear her, and he couldn't see her lips to read them, and she was refusing to sign and he didn't know what was happening except that he was pretty sure that his entire world was crumbling around him and he felt powerless to stop it. "Say it so I can understand you," he said. 

She looked at him then, and her face was a mask. "Breaking up implies we are together to begin with."

The words stung. He couldn't pretend that they didn't. What were they, if not together? What had they been all this time? But... did she mean them? Really? Maybe he was an idiot, but he refused to believe that she did. Not after the other night, and the future she'd dreamed up for them, imagining and reimagining it until he'd fallen asleep and dreamed it too. "No masks with me, Natasha," he said softly. "Don't hide."

"I am not hiding," she said, but her voice was hard and cold and belonged to someone else. That someone even had a name. "I want what is best. I think this is best for you. This is where you come from. This is your home." 

The show was ending and people were beginning to stream out, and Clint could see her calculating how quickly she would have to move to disappear into the crowd. "Don't," he said. _Please don't, Natasha. I don't need you to decide what's best for me. I already know._

 _Then what do you want from me?_ , Natasha demanded, finally breaking down as the noise around them made it difficult to talk in anything less than a shout. 

_I want you to wait so I can get my stuff. Steve can give us both a ride home._

_You **are** home,_ she insisted. 

_Now that you're here, yes,_ Clint said. _You're my home, 'Tasha. Don't you know that by now?_

She shook her head, and swallowed so hard Clint could see her throat working. _You can't live your life for me, Clint._

 _I'm not,_ he said. _But I want to live my life **with** you._

She shook her head, taking a step back, and then another. He started to go after her, to keep her from turning and running, because he knew now that that was what she did when things got too hard, and he could understand it, he could, but it didn't solve anything in the end and maybe the stakes weren't as high as that night back in January, but maybe they were, and he wasn't going to let her go now any more than he would have then.

Except he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to look. It was Barney. "Let her go, little brother," he said. "There are other girls in the world. Even pretty redheads with big—"

"You'd better stop right there," Clint said, "before you say something we'll both regret."

The words were enough to stop Natasha, too, and draw her back. Because no matter what was going on between them, when push came to shove (and push might be about to come to shove) they had each other's backs, always.

Barney tried to laugh it off. "Easy, killer. I'm just saying, she's not the only girl in the world." 

"Maybe not," Clint said, "but I love her."

"You just met her five minutes ago," Barney said, looking at him like he'd lost his mind.

"No," Clint said. "I met her almost a year ago. She's why I stayed here. She's why I didn't run away and look for you. Because I figured out that I didn't need you and all of this to be happy."

"That's what you think?" Barney shook his head. "You don't know anything, little brother. Nothing. You think you're any different than me or anyone here? You think you can walk away from this and just pick a different life? That ain't how it works. There ain't nothing out there for people like you and me, Clint, except this. The sooner you figure that out, the better."

"You sound like Dad," Clint said.

"Yeah, so? Maybe Dad was right."

"Dad wasn't ever right about anything," Clint said. "He was just a pathetic old drunk with a mean streak a mile wide. And if you're gonna turn out just like him, then that's even more reason for me to get out of here while I still can, because I ain't gonna be like him, ever."

"Because _love_ is gonna save you?" Barney snorted. "Love is for children."

"We _are_ children," Natasha said. Maybe not like most people thought of children, but they had fought so hard for the chance to not carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. They'd earned the right to be young – maybe even a little naïve – for once.

Barney looked at her, and it was an ugly look. Natasha just set her jaw and crossed her arms, putting herself – small as she was – between Clint and Barney so that if his older brother wanted to get at him he had to go through her first. 

Clint was pretty sure that his brother had no idea what kind of a threat that actually was... but it didn't take long for him to find out, because Barney had never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.

"Oh, now I get it," he said. "Russian, right? You know, I've heard things about Russian girls, and if I had a chance to—"

He didn't get to finish whatever he'd been about to say, though, because Natasha reached out and punched him, knocking him sideways. Blood flowed from his nose and he clutched at it.

"You do not say these things about your brother," Natasha said. "He tells me for you, family is everything, but then you say things, untrue things, and I wonder if you know your brother at all."

Barney looked at her, then past her at Clint. "You better make your choice, little brother," he said. "Because if I have to look at this c—"

"You don't," he said. "Let's go, Natasha." He walked away from Barney, grabbing his bag from the trailer (he'd packed it when he changed) without letting her out of his sight, and going to meet up with the crowd. 

Natasha stopped him at the edge of the parking lot, looking back. _Are you sure? He is your family._

_**You** are my family, 'Tasha. The one that I chose. I can't keep looking backward, and my future is with you._

_And a Siberian Husky. Or a Borzoi,_ she replied. 

"Because Russian dog is best dog," he said, mimicking her accent, and then he had to dodge quick to avoid being hit, but she caught him and kissed him and didn't let go until Steve (and when had he shown up, anyway?) pointed out to them that people were staring. 

"Let them stare," Natasha said. "Everyone like happy ending."


	56. Chapter 56

But of course it wasn't that simple. It never was for them. Maybe it never would be. Still, it felt like they'd reached some kind of understanding, and that was something. Steve drove them both back to Mr. Fury's. The principal didn't seem surprised to see Clint, although his eyebrows went up slightly at the bag he carried over his shoulder. "Do your par—do the Sullivans know you're here?"

"I have to call them," Clint said. 

"Call them now," Mr. Fury said. 

Clint opened his mouth to object, felt Natasha's fingers digging into his elbow and glanced at her. She shook her head. _Call now,_ she signed. 

_Okay._ He went into the living room, away from where Mr. Fury was putting things on the counter in anticipation of making dinner, and dialed the Sullivans, his stomach in knots. He didn't want to talk to them. It would just turn into an argument, because it always turned into an argument. He didn't want to have to ask permission to stay; he would only be forced to lie to Mr. Fury when they said no, because there was no way he was leaving. 

"Hello?" 

"Connor, you're not supposed to answer the phone," Clint said. "Can you get Mr. Sullivan?" Because if he had to talk to them, he figured he stood a better chance with his foster father. Mrs. Sullivan was the 'say no now, ask questions later' type. 

"Who?" Connor asked. Which was why he wasn't supposed to answer the phone.

"Your dad. Is your dad there?"

"Who is this?" Connor asked.

_For fuck's sake._ Clint looked at Natasha and rolled his eyes. "It's Clint. Clinton. Come on, Connor. I don't got all day."

"Do you wanna talk to Mom?" Connor asked. "I'll get her."

"NO. Connor, get Dad, okay? I need to talk to Dad."

"He's busy."

"What's he doing?"

"I dunno. Something in the garage."

"So take the phone out to the garage. Seriously, you ain't even supposed to answer the phone."

"Ain't ain't a word 'cause it ain't in the dictionary," Connor sing-songed, snickering.

"You _aren't_ supposed to answer the phone. So give the phone to Dad so you don't get in trouble, huh?" 

Connor heaved a sigh. " _Fine._ DAD!"

What felt like an eternity later, Mr. Sullivan came on the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey. It's Clint."

"Do you need a ride?"

"No. I'm at Natasha's right now. Steve dropped me off here. I... I wanna stay. Mr. Fury can take me to work tomorrow, and I still got clothes with me so that's not a problem, and—"

"I don't think that's a good idea, Clint," Mr. Sullivan said. "You've been out all weekend. We've barely seen you since Thursday."

_So what?_ But Clint couldn't say that. "I know. But... look, I don't know what Mr. Fury told you about Natasha, and it ain't my story to tell, but the short version is that she's been through a lot of sh—stuff and I haven't actually seen her in two weeks because she's had to deal with what's hopefully the end of it and..." He shrugged. He didn't know what else to say.

_It's okay,_ Natasha told him. _You can tell him if you have to._

_You sure?_ , Clint asked. Natasha nodded.

"Two weeks?" Mr. Sullivan asked. 

"I wasn't allowed to see her when the trial was going on," Clint told him. 

"Why didn't you tell us?" His foster father sounded surprised, or concerned, maybe. Clint didn't know, and didn't know why he'd care anyway.

"Didn't figure it mattered. Wasn't anything you could do to change it, so what was the point? But now I can see her, and I want to stay."

"Okay," Mr. Sullivan said. "For tonight, but after work tomorrow you need to come home."

The silence stretched so long his foster father asked if he was still there. Clint nodded, then realized Mr. Sullivan couldn't hear that and said, "Yeah. So... it's okay?"

"It's okay. I'll explain to Mrs. Sullivan. You look out for Natasha."

"Yes sir," Clint said. "Thanks. Thank you."

"We'll see you tomorrow."

Clint hung up, staring at his phone for a moment. It had been too easy. It was going to come back to bite him in the ass somehow, because that had been way too easy. For now, though, he had what he wanted.

Natasha took the phone from his hand, setting it on the table next to the couch. _He said okay?_

Clint nodded. He held out his hands to her, and when she stepped into the circle of his arms he tightened them around her, holding her close, breathing her in. She was shaking, and so was he, and maybe this wasn't the best place for this but it was where they were and he wasn't letting go. 

"We should tell Mr. Fury," Natasha said finally. Her breath tickled his skin. 

"Yeah," Clint said. "Okay." He loosened his grip on her, but her fingers found his, laced them together. 

Mr. Fury looked up from the flour he was measuring. "What did they say?"

"They said okay," Clint said, and the words still tasted strange on his tongue. "They'll pick me up from work tomorrow."

"I'll call you when the dough's ready then," Mr. Fury said. "Go on." 

They didn't argue, just retreated to Natasha's room. She stopped in the doorway, looking around like the place seemed unfamiliar, and maybe after two weeks away it did. After a second she shook herself and stepped in, closing the door behind them. She looked at him, her hands half-raised, and then she let them fall, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed.

Clint knew the feeling. There was so much to say... and he didn't feel like saying any of it. It didn't feel like it would help either of them to talk about what had happened over the past few days, at least not right now. So he just sat next to her and laced his fingers through hers again, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

She smiled. Just a flicker, but it was there, and he'd seen it, and it made a few of the knots in his gut untie. And then she unfolded her thumb, index finger, and pinkie, and he did the same, and a few more gave up their hold. The weight of the silence eased, and it felt possible to take a full breath again. 

_I missed you,_ he told her, the signs awkward with only one hand. 

_I missed you too,_ she replied, easing her fingers from his grip. _I hated it. All I could think was that I would rather be dealing with a bunch of screaming kids than sitting around in a hotel. I was so bored, I thought I was going to lose my mind._

_Wow, that must have been **bad** if you would rather have been at work,_ Clint joked. 

_It was... it didn't make any sense to me. I understand that they wanted to keep anyone from being able to get to me, or to say anything to me that might make me afraid to testify. I do understand that. But to cut me off from everything and everyone so that all I could do was sit around and think about all of the ways that it might all end up blowing up in my face? Not the smartest move._ Her face screwed up and she shifted farther back on the bed, propping herself up with some pillows.

Clint turned to face her. _But that didn't happen, right? It didn't blow up in your face._

_I don't know. I just have to wait and see now. It's in the jury's hands._

_What happens if they—_ Clint stopped himself. She wouldn't have an answer to the question anyway, and why think about it? There was no way that they weren't going to find him guilty. He _was_ guilty, and why would they doubt that after what Natasha had said? Not that he knew what she'd said, exactly, but he knew what she'd told him and that was damning enough. It had to be.

He asked a different question. One she might have an answer to. _Do you know how long it'll be?_

Natasha shook her head. _Hopefully only a day or two._

_I wish I could stay with you 'til then._ Clint wasn't even sure why he said it, but it was true. 

_I wish you could too._ They both knew it was impossible, and Clint's thoughts drifted to their little house and the bedroom with purple walls. He wondered if Natasha was thinking of it too as her gaze went briefly far away. _At least we have tonight._

Which ended up being an early night. They were both exhausted. Even though Natasha was sick of watching movies, they ended up putting one in anyway, just to have an excuse to be in bed at eight o'clock. 

"Even Connor stays up later than this," Clint joked as he stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers and crawled under the covers. 

"We are not sleeping yet," Natasha argued. "Is not so bad."

Except they weren't even halfway through the movie before she was asleep on Clint's shoulder, her hand over his heart. He took his hearing aids out then and switching off the sound so it wouldn't disturb her. He made it almost to the end, but didn't quite manage to keep his eyes open to see the credits.

He woke in the middle of the night, disoriented because he was in a bed that wasn't his, alone. It took him a minute to remember where he was, and another for his eyes to adjust enough to see Natasha's silhouette in the moonlight coming through the window. 

She stood unmoving, staring out at he didn't know what. Her pale skin seemed to glow, and he thought he saw the shine of dampness on her cheeks. He should get up, go to her, but there was something in her stillness that kept him where he was.

He must have fallen back to sleep, because the next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake. Natasha was pressed against his back, one arm over him, holding him tight. He turned to look at her, and her forehead was furrowed, creased with concern.

_You were having a nightmare,_ she told him, although maybe it was meant as a question.

_Was I?,_ Clint asked, trying to think. But whatever had been in his head before was gone. _I don't remember._

_You were making a face._ She lowered her eyebrows and tightened her jaw, her expression filled with tension that could be worry or fear. _I thought maybe you were having a nightmare._

_I don't remember,_ Clint repeated. A lingering sense of unease told him that maybe she was right. _I'm sorry if I woke you._

_You didn't wake me,_ she told him. _Do you have nightmares a lot?_

_Sometimes. I don't usually remember._

In the past two weeks, though, he'd had plenty, and although the details were often fuzzy, the gist of all of them had been the same, and that had stuck with him. He'd dreamed – nightmared – incessantly about the possibility of losing her. But he wasn't sure that it was fair to bring that up. Especially since her words earlier, her attempt to send him away, would more than likely fuel new variations on the theme.

But she was holding him, and had that ever happened before? It felt good. 

Natasha traced the design on his t-shirt, which tickled when she got to the places where it curved over his ribs. She looked up when he squirmed and laughed, catching her hand, and drew his fingers to her lips to kiss his knuckles. _Do you remember good dreams?_

_No, not those either._

She nodded and settled against him, lost in thought. He stroked her hair, combing his fingers through the tangled waves absently. 

_Tell me,_ she said after a few minutes. _Tell me what you remember._

He didn't ask why. He'd fallen out of the habit, as it was a question that she rarely answered, and one that she might not even consciously know the answer to. But she wouldn't ask if it wasn't important for some reason. 

He shifted his position so that she could see him more clearly in the dim light. _They all blur together. The recent ones. I keep dreaming that I'm waiting somewhere to hear about the trial, and finally someone calls – never you – and says that you're being taken away. Sometimes I don't know where, sometimes it's back to Russia. And I try to get to you, but I can't. Sometimes I call everyone I know to give me a ride to where you are before they can make you disappear, and no one answers. Sometimes I have a car but it's impossible to drive because there's no light, or there's no seat and I'm trying to drive from the back seat and... I can't get to you. I never know that you're gone, though, so I keep trying._

The silence stretched long between them, until finally she lifted her hands from where they'd knotted together. _I have the other side of your dream,_ she said. _I'm waiting for the verdict and sometimes it's guilty and sometimes it's not, but no matter what it is, they take me away and they won't tell me where but sometimes I'm sure it's the airport and I try to get away, to get back to you, but I can't, and I can't even call you because they have my phone._

It didn't surprise Clint that they had almost the same dream. Logically it meant nothing, and also was impossible that they would actually share a dream. But the idea of it reassured him.

_It's not going to happen,_ he told her. _We're in this together, and neither of us is going anywhere._

She nodded, and they settled back under the blankets, two bodies taking up little more than the space of one, but they didn't sleep, and the silence was heavy again with the things they weren't saying, even as their eyes searched each other's faces, looking for answers the questions they couldn't bring themselves to ask.

Natasha looked away, swallowing hard. _If I could take back what I said—_

Clint shook his head. _I know, 'Tasha._

He wouldn't forget her words any more than she would forget that he'd once run away after promising that he never would. They'd been meant to wound, and they'd done their job. He wouldn't forget, but with her pressed so close he could feel her breathing and the beat of her heart and the trust that it took for her to even let herself be in this position... it was easy to forgive. 


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may contain minor spoilers for the movie Pacific Rim (because that's what they go to see). If you haven't already seen it, you should. I don't think it gives away anything that couldn't as easily be spoiled by spending 5 seconds on Tumblr, though.

Mr. Sullivan was as good as his word. When Clint went home on Monday night, the worst he got was a few stern looks from Mrs. Sullivan, and she even asked him if he wanted to invite Natasha over for dinner one night.

The jury took longer to reach a verdict than they'd expected, which had them both on edge, but especially Natasha. She didn't say anything, but she didn't really need to. Clint could see it in her eyes, that every day that passed with no decision meant that they were having doubts, that they thought somehow he hadn't done the things that he'd been accused of, that he hadn't done what she'd said he did. And Clint cursed himself for burning bridges with Barney, because even if they hadn't gone then, it would have been nice to have somewhere they could run to if they had to run.

Work distracted them for a few hours every day, but not enough, and Clint found himself paying more attention to what Natasha was up to than the kids, which got him a lecture from the camp's director when a few of the kids he was supposed to be monitoring decided to switch from his group to another, losing themselves for about twenty minutes in the process.

They'd been found, so Clint couldn't see what the big deal was, and why were people so concerned about kids having the tiniest bit of independence, anyway? He'd been let loose to do what he wanted from a way younger age than these kids, and he'd turned out fine, hadn't he? But he'd just bit his tongue, mumbled an apology, and promised to do better.

On Thursday during lunch, he saw one of the senior counselors walk over to Natasha's table, and she stood up. He was half out of his seat before she even glanced his way, and when he saw the look on her face – a perfect blank, and pale as a porcelain doll – he got up fully, not caring what anyone said about it. There were plenty of people to make sure his kids didn't run amok. 

He fell into step beside her, and when his fingers brushed her wrist he found them locked in a crushing grip a moment later. They stepped into the director's tiny office and found Mr. Fury and a man (who was obviously trying to look inconspicuous and failing miserably) standing there. One glance from the man (FBI, Clint guessed) sent the director scurrying out of the room.

When he leveled the same look at Clint, though, he didn't budge. "Who's this?" the man asked. 

"My best friend," Natasha said. "This is Clint."

"The one you were protecting."

Natasha shrugged. "The one who protect me from me."

"You want him here?"

"I bring him. You think is accident?"

Clint thought he saw the barest flicker of a smile. "All right. Jury's in."

Natasha's grip tightened, and Clint tried not to wince. "Yes?"

"Guilty. On all charges. Sentencing hasn't happened yet, but he's going away for a long, long time." 

"Guilty?" It came out a question, like she couldn't quite believe what she'd heard. 

"Guilty," the agent confirmed. "I have it on good authority that the most damning piece was the testimony of a girl he'd exploited, one of the few people actually willing to take the stand and speak out against him."

He meant Natasha. At least Clint assumed he meant Natasha. For a second, it looked like Natasha was going to protest, but then the words sank in, and she sagged like all of the fight had gone out of her. 

"Is over?" she asked.

"It's over."

She hesitated, then asked, "What about my visa?" 

"It's good for a few years," the agent told her. "Enough time for you to go through regular immigration proceedings. We're not going to revoke it just because the trial is over. It's time you got the chance to live the life you were promised."

The rage and determination that had kept her spine straight for all these months washed away in the space of a second, and Clint caught her and held her. He thought he heard Mr. Fury say something about giving them a minute, but he wasn't sure and it didn't matter because once the door closed Natasha lost it, breaking down and sobbing, and it was relief, probably, mostly, or at least he assumed so because that's why he was crying too, clinging to her even as he kept them both upright.

"It's over," he told her, when he had his voice under control again. "It's really over, 'Tasha." He brushed the hair back from her temple and kissed her there, and she finally lifted her head.

"I get to stay," she said, but it was a question, too, deep down.

"That's what he said," Clint told her.

"No more hiding?"

"No."

"No more being afraid every minute."

"No."

"I get to stay."

"You get to stay."

And finally, _finally_ she smiled, and kissed him, and then they held each other so tight their ribcages ached with it after, and one of them started laughing and the other followed and then they couldn't stop and if anyone could have seen them in that moment they would have thought they had lose their minds, but they didn't care. 

"We should celebrate," Clint said.

"How?" Natasha asked. 

Clint thought for a second, then grinned. "Go on a date with me. We never have."

"We've—" But Natasha stopped, her forehead furrowing as she realized Clint was right. They had known each other for almost nine months, and been together – by some nebulous definition of together that they'd never actually bothered to define – for at least six of that, but they'd never been on a date.

"Where we would go?" Natasha asked. 

"I dunno," Clint admitted. "I've never been on a real date before."

"Neither have I," Natasha said. "All I know of dates is from movies and TV."

"Well... we could do that," Clint said. "Go to the movies. Make out in the back row."

She swatted him, and he let her. "When?" she asked.

"Tomorrow night?"

"Okay." And she kissed him again, and the whole rest of the world dropped away for a minute, until the director of the camp knocked on the door and called through to them that lunch time was over and they needed to get back to work.

*

"I really need my license," Clint said the next night after Mr. Fury dropped them off at the movie theater. "'Cause that's just embarrassing."

Natasha shrugged. "At least we are out of house." 

Which was true enough. They joined the line and picked a movie basically at random, since neither of them had been paying much attention to anything but each other for so long they didn't know what anything was. Not a kids' movie and not a sequel was about the only criteria they applied, and that narrowed it down pretty damn far.

They found seats in the back row – the theater wasn't too crowded – and settled in, sharing popcorn between them that they both decided pretty quickly wasn't actually entirely edible. Clint tried to remember the last time he'd been in a movie theater and couldn't. Maybe when he was a kid, he and Barney had snuck in. 

The movie started, and a few minutes in, Clint wondered if they'd made a big mistake, picking this movie. He wasn't sure he was ready to spend two hours watching somebody deal with the loss of their brother. He didn't know if he made a sound or a face or what, but Natasha flipped up the arm rest between them and tucked herself against his side, so he slipped his arm around her shoulders, and they stayed like that, taking comfort in each other as the story sucked them in, until the last credit rolled.

They went for ice cream after, because there was a place close enough to walk to and because Mr. Fury wouldn't be back to get them for an hour. (And that was still fucking embarrassing.) Natasha was quiet, and Clint couldn't tell if she was upset or just thinking as they walked. 

"What did you think?" he finally asked.

"Was good," Natasha said. "I think at first it would not be good. Giant aliens, giant robots. Noise and fighting and who cares? I do not like war movies. I am tired of all the time fighting. But that is not all it is, and that is good."

Clint nodded. "Which was your favorite?" he asked. He knew the answer (or he assumed he knew) but he was trying to keep the conversation light. He wasn't ready to talk about how much the movie reminded him of himself, of them. It was in a good way, he thought, but it was also pretty heavy and what if Natasha didn't see it the same way.

Natasha snorted. "Which you think is my favorite?"

"I dunno. The Chinese one?"

She knocked against him with her hip, staggering him half a step. "Cherno Alpha. How I could say different? Is Russian!"

"Aw, come on! Three arms!"

"Russian!"

"Fine, fine. Cherno Alpha," he said.

"Which is your favorite?" she asked. "Chinese one?"

Clint shook his head. "They were all cool," he said, "but I liked Gipsy Danger best."

Natasha nodded like she'd expected that, or like she understood. Maybe she did. Probably she did. It wasn't like he was exactly a big mystery. Especially to her, he was an open book, and it wouldn't take a genius to draw parallels between the guy who lost his brother and then found a girl who could fill that place in his life, who could be more, even, who could make him feel alive again, and like he had a place in the world where he belonged.

And it wasn't hard to draw connections between Natasha and a young girl who'd lost her family and who was willing to fight to get what she wanted, what she knew she needed, to get past the trauma of her past.

It was Natasha who brought it up, finally, when the silence stretched too long. Clint wasn't sure he ever would have, but then he was pretty sure that Natasha had more guts than he could ever hope to. She'd finished her ice cream, leaving her hands free. _Would you want that?_ , she asked. 

_Want what?_ Clint thought he knew, but he didn't want to be wrong. 

_To be able to see inside my head._

He hadn't been wrong. It was a simple question, and it seemed like it should have a simple answer. Wasn't that always up near the top of everyone's list when asked if they could have any superpower that they wanted, what would it be? To be able to know what other people were thinking was probably only topped by invisibility or the ability to fly. But that kind of assumed that the other person wouldn't be able to see what you were thinking, and also that you would have some kind of control over what you 'overheard'. What the Jaeger pilots did wasn't anything like that. It was everything, all or nothing, and did he really want to see everything in her head? 

Probably not. But... _I don't know. Maybe. Some things._

She nodded, and dropped the subject. They talked more about the movie, and what else they might do this weekend, and how they didn't want to go back to school and whatever popped into their heads, and it was probably exactly like what normal teenagers talked about on a normal Friday night after a normal date.

They weren't normal. Every laugh, every smile, every touch felt play-acted, very nearly genuine but just a little bit false, like they were putting on a show to prove to people that they were just like everyone else, when deep down they knew that they weren't and never would be.

Finally it was time to meet Mr. Fury, and it was almost a relief. "Where are you going?" he asked Clint. "Am I taking you home?"

"Um." He hadn't asked. Shit. And now he wasn't even sure of what the answer should be. 

He looked at Natasha, and she rolled her eyes. _You didn't ask?_

_I forgot._

_I blame you if they say no._

_Fair enough,_ he told her, not caring at all that she thought he was an idiot because at least he was the idiot she wanted to fall asleep with and wake up next to, even when things felt like they'd slid sideways somewhere along the line.

He called the Sullivans, and groaned inwardly when Mrs. Sullivan picked up, figuring the request was doomed. But she only lectured him on making plans ahead of time and not waiting until the last minute, and warned him to make good decisions (which was something she said to the younger boys all the time and it kind of drove him up a wall, but it was better than hearing the words "condom" or "sex" coming out of her mouth) before agreeing to let him stay.

"Thank you," he said, and Mr. Fury started the car, heading straight home.

"You should just keep clothes here," Natasha said. "Would be easier."

"You think they'll still let us once school starts?"

She shrugged. "On weekends, maybe. I hope." _I sleep better._

 _Me too,_ Clint told her.

But neither of them could sleep that night, and finally Natasha got up and slipped on a hoodie that had once been Clint's and held her hand out to him. He slipped on his jeans and followed her out of the room and then out of the house to the back porch. She sat down on one end of the porch swing, body angled to face him as he took up a place on the other end. He kept one foot on the ground, rocking them slowly.

The moon was bright enough to see each other by, and Natasha watched the stars. Clint mostly watched Natasha.

And finally she asked what he was sure she'd been holding back since she'd ended the conversation hours before, picking up where she'd left off as if there'd been no interruption at all, trusting that he would follow. _Like what. What would you want to know?_

He'd had plenty of time to think about it, and yet still he hesitated to answer, because it was something that they'd both been ignoring since it happened, avoided talking about for... eight months now? Had it really been that long? And maybe it was better to just let it go, but he wasn't sure he could. He wasn't sure either of them could, or should. It was the elephant in the room, and Clint hadn't ever really much liked elephants.

 _That night,_ he replied finally. _Do you remember? In the cemetery._

She glanced away. _Which one? There was more than one night._

He guessed maybe there was at that, and suddenly words failed him. _The one where you... where we almost..._

Now she was looking at him again, and her eyes were dark, her jaw set. _The one where you pushed me away._

How could she be angry? _Was_ she angry? Did she really not understand?

_You were **crying** , Natasha!_

No answer, but he saw her throat working, saw her fingers twitch.

_Why were you crying?_

Silence. Silence so deep and full of things unsaid that it ached, and they could both feel it. He was sure they could both feel it, connecting them in mutual heartbreak for the people that they'd been then, who they weren't now but the past was always too close, breathing down their necks and now they were dragging it up to stare it down once and for all...

At least he hoped so.

Natasha pushed herself forward, shifting closer until they were knee to knee, her bare foot resting on top of his as he rocked them back and forth, back and forth. _I knew,_ she said. _Nothing had happened yet, but I knew it would and... I didn't want them to be able to take that from me. My first time... I wanted it to be with someone who... maybe not loved me, but at least respected me. At least cared. I wanted it to be someone I chose. Even if it was too soon. Even if the moment was wrong. I wanted the first time to be mine. I wanted it to be you._

"Oh." It came out as a grunt as her words, the impact of them, drove the air from his lungs. _And I pushed you away._

Natasha nodded. _And I loved you for that. And I hated you for that._ She lifted his left hand and kissed his palm. _Loved because it proved that you were just as good as I thought you were, that you **did** care, that it meant something to you and you didn't want it to be all wrong. Hated because now I knew you really were the one I wanted and it wasn't going to happen and someone else would take what I wanted to be yours. **Ours.**_

 _I'm sorry,_ Clint said. _'Tasha, I'm so sorry._

_Why? What are you sorry for?_

What _was_ he sorry for? 

_Not that I stopped you,_ he said. _That was the right thing to do, because even if you wanted it – and I really thought you didn't, I thought you were just doing it because... maybe you thought you had to? I don't know – even if you wanted it, it wasn't right. You were crying and something was wrong and I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd let it happen and it would have changed everything. It would have torn us apart. We wouldn't have what we have now if it had happened, I don't think, and I wouldn't trade this for anything. But I'm sorry that it meant that your first time was with someone who never should have been allowed to touch you, and it wasn't your choice. I'm sorry about that._

She was crying again, but this time she didn't run away. This time, when he reached up to wipe the tears away she let him, and when he opened his arms she curled into them, and they leaned back and watched the stars. 

_It still will be,_ she signed a while later. 

_What will?_ Clint asked, rousing himself from the half-awake state the warmth of her and the rocking had lulled him into.

 _That was Natalia. That's not me anymore. So it still will be. For Natasha. The first time._ She craned her neck slightly to look at him. _Maybe that's crazy, but it's not wrong._

 _Even if it wasn't, I wouldn't love you any less,_ Clint said. _You know that, right?_

 _I know._ She sat up and turned to look at him again. _It's not about virginity,_ she said. _It's about the chance to get it right. It's about the fact that there is one thing that they never managed to take, never managed to touch. This. Us. So it's good. Whenever... whatever happens. It's good._

She didn't wait for an answer, which was good because Clint didn't have one. Was it possible for one's hands to get choked up? She turned her back and rested against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her.

A star streaked across the sky. "Make a wish," he whispered into her ear.

A second passed, and then, _I don't have anything to wish for. Everything I want is right here._

And who the hell was he to argue with that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I wanted to say THANK YOU to all of you. I noticed yesterday that this story had hit 100 subscribers. 100 people who care enough about this story to want to be notified every time a new post goes up. I am floored, and so unbelievably humbled. I love you all. ♥


	58. Chapter 58

Tony was throwing a party. A funeral party he said (but not when Steve could hear and maybe take it the wrong way) for the summer, and also a going away party for Thor, who would be heading off to college soon. Steve was going to college, too, but he was staying local and they would probably still see him around.

It was being held at the Stark vacation home, which was a lakeside "cabin" that was bigger than most ordinary people's regular houses, and he promised swimming, boating, bonfires, and pretty much all the fun that they could stand to have. One last hurrah, he said, before they were forced back into classrooms.

"You're the one who went to camp to learn about robots or whatever," Clint pointed out when Tony called to invite him. 

"Yeah, but that's different," Tony said. "That was _fun_. At least this is my last year."

Clint hadn't asked about that; he'd thought Tony was going to be a junior like him, but then he'd already been taking college classes so maybe he'd managed to skip a grade or something. Natasha had. After the verdict had finally come through and she'd found out that she wasn't going to suddenly end up being sent back to Russia or some equally remote part of the United States, she and Mr. Fury had talked to Mr. Coulson and arranged to have her take some tests. Now that her English was better, the school had finally figured out that she was smart, and she'd been allowed to move up a grade, which put her in the same grade as Clint, and maybe if they were lucky, some of the same classes.

He hadn't tried anything like that. There was no way he was going to convince anyone that he was some kind of genius. Instead he'd focused his attention on convincing the Sullivans to let him get his permit. He hadn't told them until after he had it in hand that he already knew how to drive; instead he just waited to be allowed behind the wheel and took off around the block. He was pretty sure Mrs. Sullivan (who had been watching from the porch as he and Mr. Sullivan had gotten in the car; they'd decided without much – any – discussion that it was better for everyone involved if she didn't try to teach him) had almost had a heart attack.

Mr. Sullivan had just shaken his head. "You have any other surprises in store for us?" he asked. 

"Probably," Clint said. "So when can I get my license?"

They'd looked into it, and decided that it was better to just wait until after he turned eighteen, because then all of the driving restrictions that would have been imposed on him as minor wouldn't apply. Which meant he still had a few months to wait.

Clint waited until after the younger boys had gone to bed to broach the topic of the party. He'd volunteered to do the dishes after dinner, hoping to win himself some brownie points, and hadn't threatened bodily harm when Devon had spent the better part of the evening very obviously and pointedly trying to get under his skin. 

"So Tony invited me and some of the other kids from school to his family's cabin thing for the weekend," he said without preamble, before the Sullivans got a chance to settle too comfortably in for the evening. He figured if he gave them too much time to relax, they would just be annoyed by the interruption. "I can get a ride with Steve so you don't have to drive me."

"What kids from school?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. "Have we met them?"

"Uh, not most of them," Clint said. "But it's a lot of the people from back when I was helping out on the play. You've met Steve." (Which had been a strategic move on his part – it was impossible for parents to dislike Steve, he was pretty sure.) "Thor will be there, since it's kind of in his honor since he's going away, Bruce..." 

"Natasha?"

"She's invited." No point in trying to lie about it. She'd already told Clint she wasn't going if he couldn't, because she wasn't sure there were any other girls invited, and she was equally unsure that Tony could be trusted, and she'd had enough involvement with law enforcement for a lifetime, thanks, and she wasn't sure, 'I didn't like the way he was looking at me,' would count as a valid defense in an assault case.

"It's this weekend?" she asked. 

"No, next weekend. After the last day of camp, so we're kind of celebrating the end of work, too. And Tony and Bruce being back from camp, and just... a lot of stuff."

"Are Tony's parents going to be there?"

"His dad will," Clint said. He wasn't sure whether it was true or not, but there would probably be adults of some kind there, even if they were just there to make sure that they were all fed and that they didn't burn the house down.

"And it's all weekend?"

"We're going up after work Friday and coming home Sunday," Clint said. "I'm not sure what time."

"We need to discuss it," Mrs. Sullivan said, glancing at Mr. Sullivan, who nodded. 

"Sure," Clint said. "That's why I wanted to ask ahead of time." That, and because if they said no he would have to find a way around it, because there was no way he was missing the chance to actually, really blow off steam for the first time all summer.... or hell, for the first time all year.

In the end, they'd decided it was okay for him to go, and so Friday night found him riding shotgun in Steve's car, half-turned in his seat to watch Natasha, who was staring out the window watching the scenery. She glanced at him and smiled, a sheepish halfway expression. _I've never seen so much green,_ she told him.

_It's kinda awesome, huh?_

She rolled her eyes, trying not to let the other half of her mouth curve up, and turned her attention back to the window.

When they arrived, they found that everyone else from Mr. Coulson's group was already there, and they were already digging in to dinner. 

"Sorry," Thor said, his voice muffled around a mouthful of food. "We got hungry."

"As long as you left some for us," Steve said, smiling. 

They quickly discovered that there was no danger of them running out of food. After grabbing plates and filling them, they found seats on the porch with everyone else. Conversation happened in fits and starts, skipping from one topic to another as they all tried to catch up. Even Loki joined in; he'd gone to theater camp for a month and had all kinds of stories about the quirks of the other campers. Only Clint and Natasha stayed mostly quiet, because what had consumed most of their summer vacation wasn't something that either of them particularly wanted to discuss.

After dinner, a fire was built in the fire pit, and Bruce told them scary stories about Tony at 'nerd camp'. Apparently he'd almost blown up the lab (which he had been banned from shortly thereafter). "I hadn't perfected the formula!" he said. "It was a work in progress!" Chemistry was not, it would seem, his strongest area. He'd excelled in his programming and engineering classes, and his project had been the talk of the presentation fair at the end of the session.

Natasha lit a cigarette and took a drag, watching the fire as it flickered. She offered it to Clint as she breathed out a plume of smoke, and he wondered if she was thinking of their nights in the cemetery, too. They'd come a long way since then, hadn't they? 

There was an ebb in the conversation and they could hear Steve sniff, stifling a cough. "Who's...?" He looked over at them and grimaced. "I'm sorry to be a pest, guys, but cigarette smoke really bothers my asthma."

"Sorry," Natasha said, stubbing it out. "Was last one anyway. Now I guess I quit."

Clint looked at her and she shrugged. _I can't get Russian ones anymore. Maybe it's time to just let all of that go. Including the bad habits._

But the night proved that saying a thing was a lot easier than doing it. Trauma couldn't just be put aside like a bad habit. Still, if Clint didn't tell Natasha that she'd woken him up several times, thrashing her way through bad dreams, and if she neglected to mention to him that he moaned and whimpered her name and his brother's in his sleep, well... what of it? 

Saturday morning dawned clear and cool, sun shining off the water on the lake like diamonds, so bright it hurt their eyes if they looked at it too long. Tony was already up (or maybe he'd never gone to sleep to begin with) and told them that he'd checked the weather and it was going to be a perfect day, and he hoped they'd brought swimsuits because no one was going to be allowed to sit around the house.

He hadn't mentioned that there would be others coming, but just before ten o'clock, as the last of them were finishing breakfast, people started to arrive. There were some of Thor's friends, and people from the drama club, people that Bruce and Tony knew from their scientific endeavors (and a few from their camp who lived close enough to show up), and much to everyone's surprise, Pepper, who narrowly avoided what was either intended as a tackle or a hug (it was impossible to tell which) from Tony as she came in the door. 

"Why you are here?" Natasha said as Pepper found her way to the somewhat quieter corner of things. "I think you hate him?"

"Thought," Pepper corrected absently, not to be mean but because it was something that her mother always did to her. She would have been mortified if she'd realized she'd done it; the last thing she wanted was to turn into her mother, at least in that regard. "I wouldn't say hate, exactly. He just drives me crazy. But he throws good parties." She shrugged and smiled. "Know where I can change?"

They pointed her in the direction of the bathroom. It didn't take long before the entire party had moved out of the house and down to the dock that jutted out into the lake. Just as Tony had promised, the temperature was creeping up steadily, and people were eager to get into the sun.

Natasha held back a little, watching everyone as they settled onto towels on the little beach or squabbled over who was going to take the front of the canoe versus the back. Clint touched her back and she glanced over at him. _What's wrong?_ , he asked.

_I just realized that everyone here – even Loki – has other friends that Tony invited._

And we don't have anyone else, was what Clint knew she wasn't saying. There was no one else to invite. They only had each other. 

He didn't try to respond, because what was there to say? So what? I'm sorry? Nothing seemed quite right. Instead he just offered her a bottle of sunscreen. _We're going to miss the fun._

They got each other's backs (and Clint couldn't help smiling at the symbolism – life was like English class sometimes) and went to join everyone else. They got to the edge of the water and Natasha stopped.

_I don't know how to swim very well,_ she admitted.

_I won't let you drown._ Not that he was any kind of champion swimmer, but he could keep his head above water. Which reminded him to take his hearing aids out. The Sullivans would kill him if he ruined them by accidentally wearing them into the lake.

She stuck her toe in, then took a step, and another, until she was in up to her knees. Then she turned back, her forehead creased in a frown. She marched back out and grabbed Clint's hand, pulling him towards the dock. _I can't do this._

_Can't do what?_

_Be afraid._

He only had the length of the dock, taken at a sprint, to figure out what she intended to do, and then they were both airborne, hitting the water with a giant splash that soaked anyone in the vicinity. He lost his grip on her hand, and his heart slammed against his ribcage for a second until she popped up beside him, shaking her hair out of her face and grinning.

The water wasn't too deep; they could put their feet on the bottom and still breathe. It got deeper farther out, obviously, and there were people swimming out to a raft and lounging there, but Clint figured it was better not to push their luck.

Steve swam over and started talking, and it was only then that Clint was reminded that he was, in fact, deaf. Most of the time he had his hearing aids, and with Natasha it didn't matter. Now, all of a sudden, he was shut out of normal interaction. Or he was, until Natasha realized and forced them all into somewhat shallower water so that she had free use of her hands and arms to interpret for him.

_He said that Tony has a power boat that people can use later on,_ Natasha told him. _If we're interested._

_Are you?_ Clint asked. Natasha shrugged, then nodded. "Count us in," he told Steve. 

_Great,_ Natasha signed a second after Steve said it. _I'll let you know._

People didn't quite know how to react to Clint with Natasha having to interpret for him. It was as if they'd forgotten, or somehow ignored, the fact that he couldn't hear without help. He wondered if any of them realized just how much of a lot of conversations he missed. He'd gotten pretty adept at covering for it in the past year, so it was possible they had no clue. But now they were being reminded, and in a way it was a relief when they were out of the water and he could put his hearing aids back in. He hated them, but at least with them in he didn't get treated like he was some kind of leper.

As promised, Steve came and found them when Tony got the boat out of the boathouse. They strapped on life jackets and climbed aboard. Despite his general lack of regard for rules of any kind, Tony actually seemed to be a reasonable driver, at least with the boat. They sped around the lake, the wind in their hair for a while, until Tony slowed down. "Does anyone else know how to drive?" Tony asked.

"I do," Clint said.

"A boat?" Tony clarified.

"Sure. I'm great at boats." Clint grinned. 

Tony raised his eyebrows, then shrugged and gave Clint a quick crash course before climbing into the back and starting to ready the line for wakeboarding. Luckily for him, it turned out that Clint actually was, if not great, okay at driving a boat, and he got to make a couple of trips around the lake before climbing back aboard. 

"Anyone else want to try?" he asked.

"I do," Natasha said. "I will try."

So Tony got her strapped in and explained the basics of it before taking over control of the boat again. Clint watched Natasha, chewing his lip. She looked small in the water, and he couldn't help worrying that she might get hurt.

But after a few attempts that had her up and then flat on her face in the water a second later, she managed to get up and stay up, and when they hauled her back onto the boat, she was soaking wet and grinning ear to ear. Everyone stared at her, and it took a second for Clint to realize that this was quite possibly the first time that anyone else had seen her really happy. Hell, it was the first time _he_ had seen her this happy, at least outwardly.

"You try," she told him. "Is fun."

"Uh..."

"You try," she insisted. _No fear today._

_Only broken bones,_ he joked, and hoped that it wouldn't be a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

He didn't break anything, although he was pretty sure that he was going to be pretty darn sore in the morning. But Natasha, as usual, was right. It was fun, and hey, what was the point of living if you didn't take a few chances?

By the time the day wound down into night and another fire was lit, they were exhausted. Exhausted and so happy that Natasha practically glowed with it, and Clint found himself grinning like an idiot for no reason at all. They sat beside the fire together, Natasha with her back against Clint's chest, their fingers laced together, and although not everyone from the party had left, they didn't care if anyone saw. They didn't have to hide anymore.

_Today is the second best day of my life,_ he told her. 

_Mine too._

They didn't ask each other what the first best day was. They didn't need to. The first best day of their lives had been the day that they met; they just hadn't known it at the time. Now Clint just hoped that they could have more days like this, days where (with the exception of the 'oh yeah Barton's deaf kinda forgot about that' situation) they could just feel normal, where they could just be kids like anyone else. Days where they felt Alive with a capital A. Days with no fear.

And nights where they could stare alternately into fires or up at the stars and occasionally at each other (although they both tried to pretend they hadn't been when they got caught at it) and where, when they finally went to bed, it was with each other, and there were no nightmares.


	59. Chapter 59

Even before he opened his eyes, Clint could tell that it was early. Too early to be awake, but he opened his eyes anyway, and found himself almost nose to nose with Natasha, who was watching him. He wondered if somehow the intensity of her gaze had triggered him to wake up, but that was probably crazy. More likely she'd just moved or something and jostled him awake.

"Morning," he said, brushing his nose against hers. 

_Good morning,_ she replied, the signs small and cramped in the space between their bodies. 

Clint looked at her, and the way that the sun just beginning to make its way around the edges of the window shades caught in her hair and set it aglow. Like sparks from the fire, almost, but... gentler. Less volatile. It was a color that welcomed rather than warned, and he pushed back a lock of it from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. _It is, isn't it?_

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, or trying not to. _Idiot._

_I love you too._

Her breath caught and she went still, her hands up like she'd meant to say something and forgot what it was. Clint held his breath too without realizing it, mirroring her motionlessness, waiting for her to sort whatever it was out.

It lasted only a heartbeat, maybe two, and then she slipped her arms around him and there were no more words. They didn't need them, didn't need to see or hear to know what they had never really said except that they'd said it a million times before in thousands of different ways. It was in every gesture, every look, every touch they'd ever shared, and it was bigger than both of them and it drew them together.

But there was no desperation. Not this time.

When Clint reached for his hearing aids, thinking maybe he might need them, thinking probably he should be able to hear, just in case, Natasha stopped him. She caught his hand, kissed his palm, shook her head. _No,_ she told him. _No. This is you and me, exactly as we are._

She was right. Of course she was right. He didn't need to hear to understand her. 

Months of proximity had given him a pretty extensive vocabulary when it came to the subtle movements of Natasha's face and body, which had a language all their own. 

And there was no rush.

They had time, all the time they wanted, all the time in the world, to learn this language that was all and entirely their own, that they created as they went. A language of mouths and hands and bodies and _eyes_.

He knew the language of her, the push and press and grip and tense of her. He understood no, and he understood wait, I'm not sure, go slow...

It was her eyes he watched most of all, because it was the only part of her that couldn't, even if she wanted to, even if she tried, lie to him. Not anymore. 

It was her eyes that gave her away when she was slipping into dark places. 

He could see it and feel it when thoughts that didn't belong in this moment, or any moment ever again, started to creep in and drag her down. And he knew how to call her back: "'Tasha." Just one word and still hands that held but asked for nothing, expected nothing. Just "'Tasha" until she was back there with him, until light came back into her eyes and they were the only ones in the room again. 

And he learned, because she taught him, the pull and arch and grasp and melt of her. She taught him yes, please, closer, more.

There were no tears.

Not even after, as they laid curled together, shaking and shaken, catching their breath and waiting for their hearts to settle and wondering if they ever would and wondering too if they would fall into the same rhythm, but that was the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels, but maybe a little bit of them hoped for it anyway.

It was Natasha who broke the silence, her fingers trembling slightly as she formed the words. _I didn't know,_ she told him. _I didn't know it could be like this._

_Neither did I._

She looked at him, and whatever she saw in his face made her smile, which made him smile, which made her laugh and then they couldn't stop and it was a good thing that no one else was awake yet because they probably would have thought they'd lost their minds if they'd heard them.

Finally they subsided, and Natasha looked at him again as intently as she had been when he'd woken up, almost frowning. _You really do, don't you?_

Clint shrugged. _So do you._

She shrugged too.

_Coffee?_

_Okay._

Caffeine in hand, they went down to the dock and dangled their feet into the water. The sun found them there with their arms around each other's waists, and they smiled at it and at each other, and wondered how quickly they would lose count of the best days of their lives.


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the _very important_ notes at the end of the chapter.

"Gather 'round, everybody, gather 'round!" Tony was standing on a picnic table, his arms held out to his sides. When no one paid him any attention, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, poking at the screen and then holding it up to his mouth. This time when he spoke his voice echoed off the trees, like he was speaking into a megaphone.

Apparently there was an app for that. Clint suspected it wasn't one he'd downloaded from an app store. 

"As we are all aware, at the end of the week our beloved quarterback will be leaving the rest of us behind and moving on to greener pastures. Although I guess pastures are really more his brother's style, from what I've read. Thor will most likely—"

"Stark," Thor rumbled, his tone warning. 

"Right. I digress. So to honor our dearly departed—"

"He's not _dead_ , Tony," Bruce said, exasperated. 

"Our dearly depart _ing_ friend," Tony amended, "I decided to get a cake, which you now see before you at my feet."

"It's covered," Loki pointed out testily. "We can't see anything."

"Well, no, not yet. It hasn't been unveiled yet, and there's a reason for that. You see, I wanted Thor's cake to be special. Anyone can get a rectangular cake and slap a name on it. Where's the fun in that? So I thought to myself, 'Self, what can we do that will make this cake memorable?' And myself replied, 'Tony, there's really only one thing you can possibly do in a situation like this.' I said, 'Self, you're brilliant, but we already knew that.' And I went to the bakery and I requested a very special cake for our very special friend Thor. But, as you are about to see, things didn't go quite according to plan."

Tony bent down and whisked the cover off of the cake, revealing a cake in the shape of a hammer. Thor took one look at it and started to laugh.

"I asked them for a cake in the shape of Thor's hammer. I even provided them with pictures. But as you can all see, what I was presented with was a little less Norse myth and a little more Bob the Builder." 

Thor, who had mostly stopped laughing by that point, grinned. "But can we eat it?"

And everyone answered, "Yes we can!"

Everyone, that is, except Clint and Natasha, who didn't get the reference. "If it was not right, why he did not just make them fix it?" Natasha asked.

Clint shrugged, but Pepper, who was standing nearby, answered. "Because it's funnier this way. If his can't make a ridiculous grandiose gesture, then at least he can get a story out of it. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd planned the mix-up all along."

"You think he's lying?" Clint asked.

"I think Tony Stark is prone to embellishing the truth," Pepper said. "It doesn't change the fact that it was a nice thing to do." She sounded like the words left a bit of a sour taste in her mouth, like she wasn't used to saying anything nice about Tony. Especially not somewhere where there was a chance he might overhear it.

"No," he agreed. Tony could be annoying, but he hadn't forgotten the fact that he had helped them get into the records Natasha needed to prove that her so-called uncle was no such thing, and hadn't asked for anything in return, and had even (somehow, by some miracle) not told anyone about it.

"As long as tastes good, I do not care what it looks like," Natasha said. 

"Tony wouldn't get anything but the best," Pepper said. "That I'm sure of."

It took a few minutes for the cake to be cut up. When they got up to the picnic table, Clint reached for a plate and Tony batted his hand away. "Not that one. That one's Loki's." He picked it up. "Here, Loki!"

Loki's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What did you do to it?"

"Nothing," Tony said. "I just wanted to make sure that you got a piece."

Loki took it (Clint wouldn't have) and then nearly hurled it back at Tony. "You're a dead man, Stark," he said, plucking something from the top of the piece of cake and dropping it on the ground.

"But I made it special," Tony said. "Funnily enough, they don't have little eight-legged horses at the local toy store, so I had to buy two and stick the spare set on. Now he's going to need therapy after his mom rejected him."

Thor managed to catch Loki before he tackled Tony right into the rest of the cake, but only just barely. He kept an arm clamped around him as he led him away, returning a few minutes later having apparently convinced his brother that Tony Stark wasn't worth going to jail for.

"Not funny, Tony," he said. 

"Maybe a little funny?" Tony suggested, trying to act like the picture of innocence and failing.

"Not even a little."

Clint had no idea what had just happened, and he decided that it was probably better not to ask. 

The rest of the afternoon passed too quickly, and Clint kept wishing that time would slow down. Once they left, it would be back to real life, back to the Sullivans for him and to Mr. Fury for Natasha, back to two different beds in two different rooms on two different sides of town, and after that it would be back to school and homework and he wondered if it was too late to change his mind about running away with the circus again, and taking Natasha with him.

People started to leave, and they watched them all go, sitting shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip on a little bench along the path that led to the small private beach. Only Pepper and Thor came to say goodbye to them. Thor smiled at them, his big sunny smile that might have led them to believe he didn't have a thought in his head if they didn't know better.

"Thank you guys for doing this," he said. "I'm going to miss all of you."

"Tony did it, not us," Clint said, trying not to squirm. "But, uh, yeah. You too." 

"If you ever need me, you've got my number." He smile slipped a little, and he leaned closer like he had a secret to tell. "I'll try not to let my Russian accent get rusty, just in case." 

Clint felt Natasha flinch, and he rubbed his thumb along the side of her hand. "Thanks," he said. He'd somehow forgotten about that, and forgotten how much they'd managed to keep away from their friends, even when things were at their worst. 

"That is all done now," Natasha said. "He is no more problem for me."

"That's good," Thor said. "I'm glad." And it was obvious that he genuinely was. He pulled them both into a hug, and then walked back up to the house. It was strange to think that they wouldn't see him at school anymore.

"We could just paddle away," Clint suggested. "See where we end up." 

"Mm," Natasha said, a sound that could have been agreement, or it could have been 'don't be stupid'. She leaned harder into him, so he chose to believe that it was the former more than the latter. But the truth was that they couldn't. Someone would come looking; they wouldn't be allowed to just disappear.

The sun was starting to set when Steve came to find them. "We're cleaning up," he said. "If you want to help."

They didn't, or at least Clint didn't, but you couldn't look Eagle Scout Rogers in the face and tell him that. So they got up and went to help deal with the mess that the party had left behind. Even Tony lent a hand, when his protests that they had people who were paid to do that fell on deaf ears... so to speak. 

"Do you need a ride?" Steve asked Bruce when they were finished. 

"I'm staying a few more days," Bruce said. "But thanks."

"We're here through next weekend," Tony explained. "You can come back up if you want to for the holiday."

"I have a family thing," Steve said. "Otherwise I'd love to. It's really nice up here. Peaceful."

"Too bad," Tony said. "What about you two?" He looked at Clint and Natasha.

Clint shrugged. "We'll see." He knew there was no way that the Sullivans would go for it. Not two weekends in a row, not before the start of school, and definitely not if they had to drive him. Maybe they could get Mr. Fury to do it, but he was probably going to be busy dealing with back to school stuff. 

It wasn't fair. Once he had his license, it would be better, but until then every time he ran up against yet another restriction that was placed on him, it rubbed him the wrong way. At least he'd found a lead on a car that he could afford with the money he'd saved over the summer. It wasn't a great car, but it was better than nothing. He would have to get another job to be able to pay for insurance and all that, but if it meant not living under anyone's thumb, it would be worth it.

"I guess we'd better get going," Steve said. "You two ready?"

They glanced at each other and Clint could see that Natasha wasn't any more ready than he was. But they both nodded, because what else could they do? They grabbed their bags and took them to Steve's car, dumping them in the trunk. 

"What, do I smell or something?" Steve joked as they both climbed into the back seat. 

"You want one of us should ride shotgun?" Natasha asked. 

"Nah, it's all right," Steve said. "I was only kidding." He started the car and got himself turned around, heading back down the long winding driveway to the main road. He turned on the radio and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, humming along.

Clint looked at Natasha, who looked out the window. Her hand slid across the seat and laced with his, and he held on, letting her squeeze as tight as she needed to. He didn't ask what was going through her head, and he didn't assume that he knew. He couldn't help but wonder, though, if this was all as hard for her as it was for him, and if it was supposed to feel like this.

"You two are quiet," Steve said. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," Natasha said. 

"Just tired," Clint added.

"It was nice to get away, though," Steve said. "Just forget everything else for a little while." 

"Yeah, it was," Clint agreed. He couldn't help thinking, though, that they had less to get away from now than they had a year ago. 

A year ago he'd never even dreamed of anyone like her. He was still trying to deal with the idea of living in a house with a bunch of strangers, having to go to school to learn shit that he figured he would never use. He was still trying to figure out how to deal with a world that had gone muffled at best, and stone silent at worst. A year ago he'd been trying to figure out how to find his brother again (if he was even still alive) and get back to his old life.

A year ago Natasha had still been in Russia, although not for much longer. A year ago she didn't really allow herself to dream, because what would be the point when she would only have to wake up? And then when there'd been a break in the clouds, a sliver of light in her otherwise bleak future, she'd let herself believe that maybe, maybe she had a chance at something better. It hadn't lasted long. 

Nine months ago, when they'd met, he hadn't been sure she would ever trust him enough to do more than share his lunch. They'd never really talked about it, but he suspected it was mostly loneliness that had drawn them together, kept them both from pushing the other away. And then they'd found a common language and with that common ground. (Or maybe it was the other way around. It didn't matter now; only that they'd done it.) It hadn't been easy, and sometimes (often) they'd been their own worst enemies. There were so many moments where it could have fallen apart. There were so many moments where it seemed like it _should_ have fallen apart, where it would have been easier for them to give up, to let go. He'd almost lost her more than once, but here she still was. Here they still were, together.

Her hand was warm and strong in his, and the corner of mouth curved up as she looked at him, that same crooked not-quite-all-the-way smile that he saw more than anyone else, and that still felt like a gift every time.

Forever was maybe too big to believe in, but so had trust been, and they'd learned that, and so had hope been and they'd learned that too. There had been a whole lot of impossible that they'd made possible together.

So yeah. Forever.

Why not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, DON'T PANIC. 
> 
> Some of you may have noticed that I have marked this story complete. I want to reassure you that the story is _not over_ , and you will continue to receive weekly updates. They're just going to be under a different title. 
> 
> I did this for a number of reasons:  
> 1\. The story that I set out to tell when I started writing Ghosts is finished. If I was writing novels, I have reached the logical conclusion of the first book in a series.  
> 2\. It's 60 chapters and almost 120K. That's a very long fic. So long that I was starting to worry that people who haven't been with it from the beginning might be put off by the fact that it was that long and still ongoing, and not read it. (And some people won't even start reading something until it's marked complete.)  
> 3\. They've come full circle and are at the start of a new school year. Some characters are leaving, and I have been planning for a while to bring in a few new ones. (We've actually met one of them already.) It seemed logical to start this new phase of their lives as a new story.
> 
> So... yeah. That's pretty much my reasoning, and I hope that I don't lose anyone in the shuffle. I will link to the new story from here when I post it. It will also be added to the [Ghosts That We Knew series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/50966), which you can subscribe to at that link, and then you'll always be notified any time I post anything new to the series, like a deleted scene. 
> 
> I am going to try to get the first chapter of the new story up as soon as possible (maybe even tomorrow!) so keep an eye out. Thank you for being with me for this long, and I hope that you continue to enjoy the story as we move into the next "book" in the series. I love you all. ♥
> 
>  **EDIT:** And here is the continuation: [Time For A Sign](http://archiveofourown.org/works/951779)


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